Being Bob
by Twilit Violet
Summary: After yet another failed attempt to kill Bart, Sideshow Bob realizes his life is a sham and vows to start anew. But when an evening at Moe's goes horribly awry, the Simpsons find themselves in the awkward position of caring for their wounded archenemy.
1. Act I

_This is my very first Simpsons fanfic, having been officially obsessed with Sideshow Bob for over a year now. It takes place immediately following the events of "The Italian Bob" (season 17, episode 8). You may want to watch it before reading this, even if you've seen it before. Just a suggestion. :)_

_Chapter illustrations can be found in my gallery at DeviantART. Message me for the link, or if you want me to email you the illustrations._

_Since Bob loves to quote Shakespeare, I have provided several lines from various plays and sonnets throughout this story. __Italian-to-English translations are provided via Google Translator. :)_

_Rated T just to be safe, but mainly for language and suggestive themes.  
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><p><em>Being Bob<br>_

_Act I, Scene I_

_"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts." ~ As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII_

The words of the Immortal Bard rang especially true to a certain man - a man who could quote Shakespeare as flawlessly as he could belt out "Vesti la giubba" while orchestrating a multiple homicide before a live audience.

Robert Underdunk Terwilliger was an amazingly versatile actor, having played a wide range of roles throughout his life: the wayward son, the loving husband, the devoted father, the esteemed mayor. Some roles had been thrust upon him, dubious parts in which he took little or no pride: the mute sidekick, the jaded buffoon, the hardened criminal, the capricious psychopath.

As the Colosseum fell dark in the wake of the Simpsons' escape, the night sky came to life with stars that, only moments before, had been outshone by Sideshow Bob's moving aria of heartbreak and deception. Gazing up at them with a sudden air of calm, his desire to sing to the heavens themselves was quelled by the soft touch on his hand. He looked down to see Francesca standing beside him, her hand in his, with that seductive yet sinister smile that spoke a dark secret he had yet to uncover. This woman, who played the role of wife and mother, had stood by him through this fiasco. That much he had not expected.

He returned her smile and the two strolled hand-in-hand out of the Colosseum. Little Gino ran on ahead of them, swearing gruesome vengeance on a butterfly whose only sin was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Farfalla! Farfalla vendetta! Ack! Ack! Ack!" He stabbed the air with his knife. Bob chuckled. The hand holding his tightened its grip. Beside him, Francesca made a low sound like a growl as she watched the boy with narrowed eyes. That wasn't a good sign, Bob knew.

They hailed a taxi and rode home in silence. Their driver cast more than the usual amount of suspicious glances in the rearview mirror, and it wasn't until Bob reached up to tug at his suddenly too-tight collar that he realized he still had his costume and makeup on.

A horn blared behind them. The driver leaned out the window to curse and gesture obscenely as the offending motorist passed him. Gino stood up on the seat and raised his knife, shouting "Vendetta! Vendetta per il tassista!"+

"Silenzio!" Francesca hissed. She took the knife from him and forced him to sit in her lap. "You are not-a the creeminal, Gino."

Bob stole a sideways glance at her. An unsettling change had occured in the woman he called his wife, and it worried him. A lot.

The remainder of the ride was as silent as duct tape, the tension building behind it waiting to tear loose with a scream.

...

_Scene II_

_"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." ~ __Macbeth, Act V, Scene V_

It was late by the time they returned to the village of Salsiccia. Late and dark and quiet. Most of the villagers had already turned in for the night. A coldness seized Bob's heart to see shards of glass glinting in the moonlight. Some malcontent had taken a rock to the downstairs windows of the mayor's estate. His home. Approaching the front door, it appeared damaged. The rich varnish was severely scuffed, the door frame splintered. An Italian profanity had been written on the door as well, probably by the same person who'd failed to break it down. The reek of urine suggested that it had been peed on as well.

Francesca held Gino close as they entered the house, glancing about nervously as if expecting an ambush. When it seemed the coast was clear, she fled upstairs. Bob heard the slam of their bedroom door and sighed. Very slowly and reluctantly, he ascended the staircase. With each upward step his feet seemed to grow heavier. It felt as though the clown shoes he'd donned as part of his Canio costume - floppy even for him - were slowly filling with molten lead. It seemed impossible that he would reach the top step, but somehow he managed. He looked first to his left, toward the bedroom, then to the right - his office. The desire to be alone with his thoughts pushed him toward the latter.

Inside his office, the mahogany-paneled walls threatened to close in on him. The only light in the room shone through the door from a ceiling fixture in the hallway. The opulent oak desk, behind which he'd mused and deliberated on all variety of subjects, stood as void as an empty coffin in the gloom. It seemed to grow as he approached it. Or maybe he was shrinking. Placing his palms on its cold, lacquered surface, it suddenly seemed far too big a desk for him. Like something he was expected to grow into, but never did. And never would.

His shadow, black as nothing, stretched across the desk and fell upon the crimson drapes behind it. Distorted by the deeply pleated velvet folds, it glared back sightlessly, the silhouette of a monster.

"The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed the shadow of your face," Bob murmured, quoting _King Richard II_. The corner of his mouth twitched and his hands clenched into fists on the desktop. "The shadow of my sorrow? Ha!" His laugh was explosive and venomous, like a spitting cobra. "'Tis very true, my grief lies all within; and these external manners of laments are merely shadows to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the tortured soul! There lies the -"*

"ROBERTO!"

Bob flinched, then growled. "I _told_ you never to interrupt me when I am invoking the words of the Immortal Bard!" he snapped, spinning around.

Francesca stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand, Gino at her side. Both wore matching glares of contempt aimed squarely at Bob. His eyes flitted over the little boy briefly before doing a double take. His hair - his untamed mop of curly red hair - his most outstanding feature which bore him his strongest resemblance to Bob - lay in a heap at his tiny little feet.

Bob stared at the wig as if it were a massive blood-colored tarantula snoozing in the middle of the floor. The boy's real hair was as ebony as his mother's. What hadn't been shaved off now clung in thin, sweat-dampened locks to his too-round head.

"Gino, why...?" Bob whispered, turning questioning eyes to the child who no longer even remotely looked like him.

"It's over, Roberto. If-a that _ees_ your real name," Francesca said coldly.

"Of course it isn't my _real_ name!" Bob retorted. "I've told you time and again that it's Bob! Simply Bob! Or Robert, if you insist on the formality, and even _that_ you somehow manage to butcher, with your exorbitant R rolling and that damnable gratuitous O!" His voice was rising, changing in pitch from his natural smooth tenor to the guttural quality of some agitated beast. "It's Robert, _raaaahhh_-bert, not row-_bear_-toe! For God's sake, woman, is that so difficult?"

Francesca laughed bitterly. "Ha! Look at who ees-a the talking! _You_, who are-a the one ruining everything! If not for that heedeous prison uniform you are-a wearing like the underwear all of the time-" she referred to the orange jumpsuit he'd had on under his clothes when a drunken Lisa accidentally disrobed him.

"I _told_ you, that cursed Armani suit you force me to wear to galas always gives me a rash!"

"Then wear-a the Gucci!"

Bob gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, piercing her with a look of purest loathing. "Gucci. Doesn't. Breathe."

"Stai zitto! Sei un uomo patetico con i vostri capelli ridicolo pagliaccio e piedi!" Francesca shouted fanatically. "Ora la mia reputazione è rovinata per colpa tua! Tu sei un marito indegno e vergognoso il sindaco più questa città abbia mai visto!"++

At any other time Bob might have laughed at how absurd she sounded, like some God-awful Desi Arnaz impersonator running off at the mouth. He waved a hand to shush her.

"Yes, yes, everything is _my_ fault. Blame the trophy husband after all he's done for you."

"It _ees-_a your fault, you bastardo idiota!" the woman snarled. "I made-a you what you are, _Rrrrrrroberrrto_," she hissed, deliberately rolling her R's just to irritate him. "_I _made-a _you_ the husband of-a Francesca Graziella Louisa D'Angelo Bernarducci the fashion model! _Me_! Francesca!"

"Only because _you_ needed a husband to avoid the stigma of being an unwed mother!" Bob shot back, folding his arms. "Making your son wear that ridiculous wig to look like me so that none of the fourteen sperm donors you shacked up with in a single weekend could lay claim to him!"

"It was-a _four_ men, not fourteen!" Francesca's face was pink with embarrassed fury.

Bob snorted. "Four, fourteen... what difference does it make? When none of those men were foolish enough to marry you, you preyed on me, the one man in Italy ignorant of your reputation."

Of course he knew Gino wasn't his. The boy had been nearly a year old when the couple first met. They'd dated briefly and dispassionately. Then Francesca dropped a bombshell. It wasn't as much a surprise that _she_ had proposed to _him_ as _what_ she had proposed: a trophy marriage. They each needed a crutch, and each suited the others' needs perfectly. And so, one public marriage announcement later, Bob resurfaced as a new man in a new country, starting a shining new life, while Francesca resurfaced with a ring on her finger and a red wig on her baby's head to keep the tabloids from talking.

The woman's face grew redder. "I made-a you _il sindaco!_ The mayor! Those brainless pidgeons elect you because you are-a marry to _me_! You are-a nothing without me!"

"Oh, please! They all but thrust me into office after I single-handedly brought in the wine harvest with these bunioned beauties!" Bob declared, implicating his feet with a grandiose gesture.

Francesca sneered at them before meeting his glare with a haughty one of her own. "So you are-a good for one thing only!"

"_Ahem?_" Bob crossed his arms again, indignant.

Francesca rolled her eyes. "All right, _two_ things you are good for... but no more!" The momentary smug smirk was wiped clean from Bob's face. "You have-a ruin everything because you are-a swearing vendetta on-a pointy-haired leetle bambinos!"

"Vendetta! Vendetta!" Gino piped up. He began stabbing the air with an imaginary knife.

"No, Gino!" his mother snapped, grabbing his hand to still him. "You are not-a the creeminal! You are _good_ boy... with bad father figure!" She glared up at Bob again, her dark eyes smoldering dangerously. "Worst of all, you have-a corrupt my son."

Bob smirked. "Not two hours ago you thought his newfound bloodlust quite endearing," he pointed out coolly.

The woman narrowed her eyes. "It _was_ cute - until I see that he meant-a _for-real_ vendetta!" She thrust the suitcase at him, but he did not take it. His hands hung limp at his sides now, dead weights. He just stared at her, at a loss for words. The suitcase, already packed by the sound of it, hit the floor.

"Leave Salsiccia," she told him, in a hiss that made his blood run cold. "Now. And-a never come back."

The door slammed behind her.

Bob sighed heavily, leaning against the desk for support. With a wife like that, and feet like his, he'd strutted his way into the mayoral office with undeserved cockiness. And of course, pride always went before the fall. What else could he have expected? He'd known from the start of their loveless faux marriage that Francesca could and would continue to live the wild life she'd enjoyed prior to her unplanned son. And he had stood by and allowed it with nary an objection, knowing full well that their little arrangement shielded all three of them behind its blissful facade. It shielded Francesca from being labeled a spoiled, reckless whore by cruel tabloids, Gino from being a bastard child, and Bob from the shadow of his criminal past.

The rings on their fingers were a constant joke, a tired running gag. They were cheap symbols of an unholy union between two people who'd sought only to use each other as a means to their own separate ends. There had never been a ceremony, no signing of a marriage license, not a single "I do."

Fidelity was another joke - one at which Francesca always had the last laugh. In contrast, Bob had been trapped by the pretend marriage, for no sensible woman in the village would even consider an affair with the illustrious mayor and husband of the fiery Francesca. For his part, he'd sucked it up and looked on the bright side of things: he was beloved and respected, had a beautiful new home and a wonderful new life, and at the end of the day, the woman who played his wife (usually) came home to him.

Now... now it was gone. Finished. Over. The end. He'd had it all and lost it all, and yet he'd never really had any of it to begin with. The love of the townspeople had been even more capricious than his own homicidal tendencies. He should have known he'd won them over too easily. The wife and son who made him look better simply by standing beside him: only actors. His demons: still present and accounted for, every single one of them. It had all been an act, an elaborate staging. The grandest of lies. And now... now his life was an empty stage.

A single tear forged a glistening trail down his cheek, smearing his clown makeup. "I hold the world but as the world," Bob whispered into the silence. "A stage where every man must play a part, and mine a sad one."**

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><p><em>Note: The reason I wrote this intro is because A. I've never been happy with the idea of Bob being 'tied down' with a family, and B. I wanted to rid Bob of them without deviating from what is apparently canon on The Simpsons. Unlike some people, I couldn't just pretend that "The Italian Bob" didn't happen. Although the show is full of continuity errors (which bug the living crap out of me) I have a strong need for canonical stability. Ergo, this chapter was MY way of saying "Oh, hell no!" to the show's writers. XD<em>

_I mostly wrote this chapter for myself as a means of getting rid of Francesca and Gino as logically and painlessly as possible, meaning no character deaths and no bitter divorce. Nothing personal against Fran and Gino, or their admirers, but as a hardcore Sideshow Bob fan, I NEEDED to liberate him, if only for my own satisfaction. And it worked! I am QUITE satisfied now. ^_^_

_ Please be kind and review. Constructive criticism is welcome, but flames will be ignored. All other reviews will be replied to personally. :)  
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_Shakespeare quotes:_

_*King Richard II, Act IV, Scene I_

_**The Merchant of Venice, Act I, Scene I_

_Translations:_

_+"Revenge for the taxi driver!"_

_++ "Shut up! You're a pathetic man with your ridiculous hair and clown feet! Now my reputation is ruined because of you! You are a worthless husband and the most disgraceful mayor this town has ever seen!"_


	2. Act II

_Being Bob  
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_Act II, Scene I_

_"But then I sigh, and, with a piece of Scripture, tell them that God bids us do good for evil: and thus I clothe my naked villainy with odd old ends stol'n forth of holy writ, and seem a saint when most I play the devil." ~ King Richard III, Act I, Scene III_

The grating beep of the digital alarm clock on the bedside stand fished Bob from the depths of uneasy sleep. Lifting an arm that felt like lead, he slammed his fist down on the blasted device three or four times before hitting the snooze button. The stale reek of vodka and cigarette smoke permeated the rundown motel room. The former he could deal with, having brought it with him from the nearest liquor store the night before, but the latter offended his sinuses, which he now cleared with the disgusting snorting noise typical of most men in the morning. Painfully hungover, Bob cracked a bleary eye open and attempted to focus it on the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock. It read 10:18 a.m.

The musty sheets tangled around his gangly legs as he bolted out of bed, though they barely hindered him in his haste to get ready. How many times had he hit the snooze button? Having no recollection of hearing the alarm go off at all before now, Bob swore to himself yet again to lay off the bottle as he searched his suitcase for a decent suit. Oh, why the hell hadn't he laid his clothes out the night before? And why didn't this damnable motel provide irons? If there'd been enough time he would have tossed his wrinkled dress shirt into a dryer in the laundry room to smooth it out, but alas, he was going to be late for his job interview at Costingtons if he dallied another minute.

It would have been quicker to take a taxi, but he had to budget his remaining money carefully after having spent such a large portion of it on airfare to return to Springfield. Throwing on a hefty splash of cologne to suffice for deodorant, Bob sprinted out the door to the bus stop in front of the motel. With a toothbrush crammed in his mouth and a hairbrush in his hair, he boarded the city bus, breathing a sigh of relief for having made it on time. He took a seat at the back, wishing to remain inconspicuous as he finished up what he hadn't had time to do in his room. He rebuttoned his crooked shirt and straightened his tie, then began brushing his teeth. It was then that he noticed a teenage couple, both riddled with piercings, staring boldly at him from three seats up. He paused to shoot them a glare.

Bob sighed. Why Springfield? It was a question he'd been asking himself for years. For a man who was born and bred in England to end up in what had been nicknamed "The Hypoactive Pituitary Gland of America" (not to be confused with Portland, Oregon, "The Hyp_er_active Pituitary Gland of America"). There was really no way to account for such a step down from grace, but this time he really had nowhere else to go. Staying in Italy would never have worked out, and sadly, neither would returning to England.

As he finished brushing his teeth, Bob suddenly realized he had nowhere to spit. He tried the nearest window. It opened only about two inches from the top and jammed. Of course. Well, he certainly wasn't going to make an ass of himself by standing up and trying to squeeze his lips through that narrow opening. Perish the thought! With those boorish kids still watching, he glowered directly at them as he swallowed. The toothpaste hit his sour stomach like a mini H-bomb. The teens sniggered at the ugly face he made and turned away, unscalded by his glare.

"Sicko," murmured the girl.

"You mean 'psycho'," quipped her boyfriend, and they laughed again.

With a growl, Bob wiped away the bit of toothpaste foam that had trickled from the corner of his mouth. It wasn't until he checked his watch a minute later that he noticed the white spots on the crotch of his charcoal gray slacks. Accursed toothpaste! Would he even have time to wash it off before his interview? Not with his recent luck, he was certain. Of course, he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try.

...

_Scene II_

Bob bolted out of the men's room at Costingtons, the crotch of his slacks noticeably wet, and ran up the down escalator toward his appointment. Punctuality was crucial to a job interview, and with only one minute until 11:00, he knew that at least he hadn't missed this precious opportunity. He burst into the management office on the third floor just as a portly elder gentleman was departing. Bob skidded to a stop at the receptionist's desk, which caught him in the midsection. He folded over it with a little "Oof!" before quickly regaining his composure. The receptionist, a platinum blonde in a pencil skirt (how original) looked up calmly from filing her nails, doing a double take when she saw his wild hair. She raised a brow.

"I have an interview... with Mr. Costington," Bob panted.

"Sorry, hun. You just missed him. He's taking his lunch break now."

"But I have an appointment at eleven o'clock sharp!"

"Then you should have been here an hour ago," she answered boredly as she went back to filing.

Bob blinked. "Pardon?"

The receptionist pointed a freshly filed finger at the clock on the wall behind him. Bob turned to see it and his jaw dropped.

"Wha- _NOON? _ How the devil can it be twelve o'clock? It was ten-thirty when I caught the bus to come down here!"

"There's a little thing called daylight savings, hun," the woman explained coolly. "It happens about, oh, twice a year. Perhaps you should have stayed home last night setting your clocks forward instead of boozing it up down at the bar."

Bob stiffened. "For your information, Miss..." he glared at her nametag, "Naegle, I was nowhere near one of those loathesome speakeasies last night. I bought my poison from a liquor store and drank alone in a motel room," he declared with wounded pride.

Miss Naegle sighed and stood up to reach for some papers across the desk. "Give me your name and I'll reschedule you."

Bob waved a hand dismissively. "No, no. Don't bother. I already look a pathetic fool. Why prove it by crawling back in here on my hands and knees begging for another chance?"

She set the papers down. "If you're here for the sales associate position, consider it gone. Mr. Costington only hires men with a backbone."

Bob frowned. "I assure you, madam, I _have_ a backbone."

Miss Naegle glanced downward and smirked. "Well, I don't know about that, but from the look of it, I'd say you've definitely got yourself a _front_bone!"

Bob also looked down, realizing first that his pants were still wet, and second that he was sporting a rather conspicuous bulge. With a blush he covered himself quickly. "It's _not_ what it looks like!"

The woman chuckled. "Well, I know one place that's hiring," she purred, lowering her lashes to gaze up at him seductively. "Might be just the position for a man of your..." her gaze fell again to his covered crotch, then further to his enormous shoes, "...stature."

"Oh? And where might that be?" he asked, ignoring her covetous glances.

Bob walked out of Costingtons a few minutes later and stopped at the nearest phone booth. He dialed the number the receptionist had given him and waited. After two rings someone picked up. Techno music and catcalls were heard in the background as a woman's voice answered "Springfield Stallions, all nude male review, where our dancers have the biggest 'poles' in town. How may I help you?"

Bob hung up the phone with a blush.

...

_Scene III_

With today's edition of the _Springfield Shopper _tucked under his arm, Bob stepped off the bus and looked around. Right away he spotted the 'help wanted' sign in the window of what appeared to be a comic book store. Purple letters above the door read THE ANDROID'S DUNGEON & BASEBALL CARD SHOP. Bob smirked. Seriously? Just to be sure he had the right address, he thumbed through the paper until he found the employment section and briefly skimmed over the ads he'd circled earlier that morning.

The Superman theme played when he entered the shop, a rather ostentatious announcement of the arrival of potential customers. An obese man sitting behind the cashier's counter looked up from reading _Radioactive Man vs Biclops: Bye Bye Nerdy_. He stared at Bob's hair. "Sorry, pal, but the Yu-Gi-Oh! cosplay convention has been relocated to the Chuck E. Cheese's on Northbrook Boulevard due to a disagreement over whether or not Yubel is female or shemale. I maintain that she is exclusively female for reasons too personal to divulge outside of a chatroom."

Bob smirked. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, sir." He glanced around the shop as he approached the counter. "I am merely here to inquire about the employment opportunity listed in today's paper." He laid said paper out on the counter and pointed to one of the circled ads. "Individual wanted for highly classified position. Criminal record a must. Inquire in person. Skeletor, Darth Maul and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named look-alikes need not apply."

Comic Book Guy looked from the ad to Bob's face with a raised brow.

"Huh. I didn't think anyone would actually take me seriously." He sighed and hauled himself to his feet, his chair emitting a deep groan of relief. "All right then, here's the lowdown: I need an able-bodied man to dress in costume and portray various supervillains for 'March Madness and Mayhem', a month-long event sponsored by Marvel Comics."

Bob stood up straighter and put on a suave grin. "Well, I don't mean to boast, but you are looking at the renowned Robert Underdunk Terwilliger, a classically trained thespian who has breathed life into the roles of some of literature's greatest villains! And if you were serious about that criminal record..."

Comic Book Guy held up a hand. "Please, I know exactly who you are, _Sideshow Bob_." He spoke the name as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. "You played second banana to television's biggest buffoon for a decade, then framed said buffoon for armed robbery, only to be foiled by an eight-year-old boy - a boy that you, a grown man, are incapable of killing. Your gross incompetence leads me to doubt your ability to assume the persona of even the most inept supervillain's dispensable henchman."

Bob growled and raised a fist to shake dramatically. "How dare you! I'll have you know that it was never my intention to murder, but rather to _terrorize_ the Simpson brat! To leave him alive and quivering in a constant state of fear until the sweet release of death beckons seductively from its impervious abyss ... THAT, my good sir, is the true essence of villainy!"

Comic Book Guy snorted. "Ha! Your dialogue inspires less terror than Hitler on helium! Without even taking your lackluster record into account, I can tell you that your appearance alone is a bad joke for which some hairdresser somewhere should be punished. You look like the deranged progeny of Harley Quinn and Syndrome." He held his thumb and pinky next to his head to simulate a phone. "Hello? Yes, of course I'll tell him. That was Cousin Itt. It seems his Irish cousin has gone missing and was last seen with a man of your physical description. Ah! And there he is!" He gestured at Bob's hair.

It took all of his restraint not to punch the fat man in the mouth and to walk away with the remainder of his dignity intact. As Sideshow Bob exited the shop, the Superman theme played again, mocking his perpetual defeat. Comic Book Guy tsk-tsked and picked up his copy of _Radioactive Man_, his chair complaining loudly as he settled into it again.

"Worst. Villain. Ever."

...

_Scene IV_

"How did it come to this?" Bob muttered as he swept the empty corridors of Springfield Elementary School. "To go from mayor to janitor in one fell swoop. How cruel is Fate to have orchestrated such a thing?" he demanded of a wall-mounted drinking fountain on which a cleverly placed figure of a man urinating had been etched by an anonymous student. Bob smirked at it, then sighed and continued down the hall. "Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course."*

The sound of footsteps coming toward him in the empty hall came to a sudden halt.

"Ach! What's this? Another janitor? I'll tear that nancy Skinner a new one for this!"

Bob paused at the heavy Scottish accent and looked up to see a very irate and grizzled-looking man standing before him. "Ah, you must be the other custodian whose, er, disregard for personal hygiene bars him from working _in_doors."

The man furrowed his thick brow. "Aye, and _you_ must be the pretty boy who's too good to stick his hands down a clogged toilet! Ach, nooo, that's _Willie's_ job!"

The way he spoke left Bob wondering whether or not that was something to be proud of. "Well, since it isn't in my job description to tend to the plumbing, I am inclined to agree." He stepped around Willie, detouring a pile of dust with his push broom. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've a job to finish." But Willie stepped in front of him again. They were right outside the principal's office.

"Ahhh, yeh think yer better than Willie, do yeh? Yeh mamby-pamby English think yeh can outsweep a Scot! Well I'll show yeh a thing or two! Gimme that broom, yeh tea-suckin', crumpet-munchin', inbred island monkey!"

Bob clutched the broom tighter and stood up straight, looking down now on the hunched-over groundskeeper. "Sir, I wonder how you can be so dense as not to realize that you and I hail from the _same_ island. Your level of ignorance is as outstanding as it is banal."

"Ain't it jest like yeh smarmy bastards teh flaunt yer big fancy words an' think yer smarter than us!"

"Well, I'm not one to brag, but I did graduate from Yale," Bob answered coolly.

"Oooh, la-dee-da! Looks like 'Yale' be gettin' a right promotion then - from both me fists!"

A door to Bob's left opened just then, and out stepped Principal Skinner. "Is there a problem here?" he asked, looking from one janitor to the other curiously.

Bob stepped forward. "Normally I wouldn't be so bold as to issue a complaint my first day on the job, but yes, Mr. Skinner, it would seem that I've become the victim of discrimination by your _other_ custodian. He's made some very pejorative statements concerning my nationality."

To his surprise, Skinner chuckled. "Oh, that. Willie isn't discriminating, Mr. Terwilliger, I can assure you. He hates everyone equally. Isn't that right, Willie?"

The man in question sneered. "Aye, not as much as I hate you, yeh pansy-pickin' mama's boy."

Skinner nodded. "There you go!"

Bob sighed and continued sweeping down the hall.

* * *

><p>*King Henry VI, Part III, Act III, Scene I<p> 


	3. Act III

_Being Bob_

_Act III, Scene I_

_Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;  
>the hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. ~ Sonnet XCV<em>

"Riiidiiiiiii, Pagliaccioooo, sul tuo amore infrantooooo! Ridi del duooollll, che t'avvelena il cooorrrrr."+ The same stirring aria that Bob had sung at the Colosseum that fateful night now sounded melodiously throughout the halls of Springfield Elementary School. Tracing it to its source, three boys walked into the restroom to find none other than Sideshow Bob mopping the floor.

"Dude, is someone dying in here?" Dolph commented on the singing. The boy had a severe overbite and hair that covered half his face.

"My mom's boyfriend sounds like that when he's taking a dump," Jimbo, the tallest of the three, added.

"No I don't!" Kearney, the heavy one, argued. The three boys walked past Bob to the urinals, acting as if he wasn't there.

"Not _you_, Dingus! Her other boyfriend!"

Bob ignored their remarks and continued singing as he mopped, back to the boys as they used the facilities. "Recitaaarrrrrr! Mentre preso dal deliiiiirioooo, non sooooo più quel che dico, e quel che faccio!"++

"Dude, is someone drowning Moaning Myrtle?" Kearney muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the janitor.

"You can't drown a ghost, you moron!" Jimbo retorted.

Dolph finished first and turned to face Bob. "Sounds like this dude here thinks he's Weird Al Yankovic! I don't know anyone else crazy enough to sing in a bathroom, do you?"

Jimbo turned to join him. "Only my mom's boyfriend, but he's whacked out on coke!"

"I am _not_!" Kearney snapped, zipping his pants up and shooting Jimbo a nasty glare.

"I meant her _other_ boyfriend!" Jimbo snapped back.

Hunched over with the mop, Bob sighed and stood up straight, rolling his eyes as the three boys began shoving each other. "Kindly take it outside, gentlemen. I've a urine-soaked floor to mop, and your presence is far from aiding in the effort."

"Hey look, it sings AND talks!" Dolph snickered.

"Of course, if I can do one then naturally I can do the other," Bob pointed out flatly as he flopped his mop down in front of the boys. The action caused several wet mop strings to slap against Kearney's legs.

"Hey! Watch it!" the boy snarled, snatching the handle out of Bob's grip.

"Give that back!" Bob demanded.

"Or you'll what? Mop the floor with me?"

Bob smirked down at him, taking note of the boy's shaved head. "As tempting as that sounds, I fear it would be an exercise in futility."

Kearney gave him a puzzled look. "Wha-?" Bob took the opportunity to swipe his mop back.

Jimbo elbowed his confused friend. "C'mon, Kearney. Let's leave 'Sideshow Mop' alone so he can make out with his girlfriend!"

Dolph laughed. "Yeah, and she's got nicer hair than you too, Clown Boy!"

Bob growled. "I am no longer a clown, and I am certainly no boy. I am a _man_, which is something you three are a long way from becoming, judging from your current level of immaturity."

"You look more like a mop to me," Jimbo pointed out coolly.

"And you smell like one too!" Kearney added.

Bob sneered. "Hmph. Cleaning up after you vile little hoodlums doesn't exactly leave one smelling of roses, you know." He pushed his mop toward their feet. "Now scoot. You've tracked in dirt from outside and now I have to mop the entire floor all over again."

"Oh yeah?" Kearney, whose deep-treaded cleats were the muddiest, started doing a funky dance around the restroom. His filthy tracks quickly covered the entire floor.

Enraged, Bob threw down his mop and pointed toward the door. "Begone, you uncouth, degenerate little Philistine, before I eject you with a deftly delivered size thirty-seven to your puny posterior!"

"He's saying words we don't know!" Dolph shouted. "GET HIM!"

All three boys lunged at Bob. His struggling was in vain as they picked him up and carried him into the nearest stall, where they proceeded to dunk his head in the toilet. His gurgling curses were silenced by a high-powered flush.

Bob felt as though an ocean wave had swept over him, the deafening roar of rushing water drowning out the bullies' laughter. Some of it went up his nose, burning his brain. More intense than that was the sensation of his hair being sucked down the toilet, which pulled his head down further and rendered him helpless until the water settled. Even then he found it quite difficult to pull his head out. He wasn't stuck for long as one boy yanked him back by the scruff of his collar while the other two had him by the legs.

"Dude! That's the most epic swirly we've ever executed!" Jimbo exclaimed, gaping at Bob's drenched and twisted hair. They laughed again and dragged him out of the bathroom. Bob was too busy retching up toilet water to curse them.

"Now _we're_ gonna mop the floor with _you_!" Kearney declared. He and Jimbo lifted his legs higher as Dolph shoved his head toward the floor. Several students who'd been let out of class for lunch now gathered to watch. Most were laughing and shouting encouragement to the bullies.

As Bob was dragged down the hall, wet hair covering his face, he reached out blindly and grabbed onto something. Judging from the smoothness of that something and the high-pitched shriek he heard, he deduced that it was a girl's leg. He leg go promptly and tried again, this time grabbing onto a pantleg and holding on tight. Whoever it belonged to was pulled to the floor with him as the bullies continued to drag Bob down the hall.

The boy in question grabbed onto another student's leg, who in turn grabbed the student next to him, creating a train of half a dozen students and one janitor being lugged along. The weight of all those extra bodies slowed it down, giving Bob a chance to struggle. He yanked his leg out of Kearney's grip and gave a mighty kick when he felt the boy try to grab him again.

The sound of a groan and a thud was heard, followed by several students gasping. Jimbo and Dolph dropped Bob and turned to their friend, who lay on the floor in a fetal position, covering his groin.

"Dude, right in the nards," Jimbo muttered, looking down on him with pity.

"Not cool, man," Dolph growled, glaring back at Bob who was finally getting to his feet. It took him a minute or two to push and pull his hair from his face, and by the time he could see again, Principal Skinner was standing before him.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Terwilliger. That sort of misconduct is highly inexcusable."

"I agree one hundred percent," Bob replied as he wrung water from a lock of hair. "Those savage little delinquents ought to be suspended for no less than -"

"Oh, I wasn't talking about the boys," Skinner interrupted, "although their behavior _was_ morally reprehensible. I was referring to the way you, er, ahem, incapacitated young Mr. Zzyzwicz." Both men glanced over to see Miss Hoover, the second grade teacher, help Kearney to his feet. He was hunched over and limping as she led him to the nurse's office.

Bob stammered "I was only trying to -" but Skinner held up a hand.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, "but I've no choice but to let you go."

"You're firing me? For attempting to defend myself?" Bob gaped at him in disbelief.

Skinner nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so. You see, Mr. Terwilliger, nationwide school policies implemented to protect students prohibit all members of faculty or staff from acting in any way that might possibly constitute abuse. Technically we're not even allowed to file a sexual harassment charge after being pantsed."

"Why that is utterly ridiculous!"

Just as Bob spoke, Nelson snuck up behind Skinner, and with a "Yoink!" pulled down his pants. A few students nearby laughed, encouraged by the bully's boisterous "HAW HAW!"

Skinner just stood there and sighed. "Yes, I know." Pants at his ankles, he looked at Bob grimly and held out his hand. "Your keys, please."

...

_Scene II_

Bob sat on a sidewalk downtown, attempting to sun-dry himself. After the incident at the school, he'd wanted to go straight back to his motel room and shower, but the bus driver wouldn't let him on when he was soaking wet. He leaned back against the wall of a building, eyes closed, thinking. What was he going to do for money now? His savings was dwindling fast, allowing him food and shelter for another week at best.

The warmth of the sun was soothing, as was the singing of birds in a nearby tree. The sound of whistling and footsteps on the pavement gradually caught his ear, growing closer as he listened. A shadow flickered across his closed eyelids, and something feather-light landed in his lap, on the hands that lay clenched there. Bob opened his eyes and looked down at the dollar bill, then up at the man who'd dropped it. It was none other than Homer Simpson.

Bob stood up quickly. "I don't need your pity money!" he growled, waving the crinkled bill at Homer.

"Hey! That's my money! Give it back!" Homer snatched it from him and crammed it back in his pocket. The bill fell out again through a tear in his pants. "D'oh! Lousy pockets." He picked it up and this time stuffed it in his shirt pocket, next to which hung his work ID badge. Bob read "Springfield Nuclear Power Plant" in bold letters at the top, above a photo of a glassy-eyed, slack-jawed Homer with far more hair than he currently had. The words "Safety Inspector" also stood out.

Ignoring Bob completely, Homer paused to appraise his reflection in a shop window. Humming to himself, he adjusted his tie, then licked his hand and used it to to slick his remaining hairs back. Bob smirked as he stood behind him, arms folded, waiting for him to recognize his reflection in the glass. After nearly a minute of being seemingly invisible to the man, he decided to speak.

"Aren't you going to flee in terror?"

"Why would I do that?" Homer asked, still sprucing himself up.

"Because you fear me," Bob answered coolly.

"Pffft, fear you? You don't look so scary to me, pal." Homer turned around to look him over.

Bob narrowed his eyes. "You fear me because I am your mortal enemy," he growled.

Homer blinked. "Kelsey Grammer?"

"No, you imbecile! I am Robert Underdunk Terwilliger, multiple attempted murderer of that vile urchin you call a son!"

Homer just stared at him, clueless.

Bob sighed. "Sideshow Bob," he muttered.

Homer shrieked "AAAH! Sideshow Bob!" and ran away.

Bob watched him take off in the direction of the nuclear plant, whose twin cooling towers could be seen from miles away. _'Apparently any idiot can work there,' _he mused. _'Which gives me an idea...'_

* * *

><p><em>+"Laugh, clown, at your broken love! Laugh at the grief that poisons your heart." ~ "Vesti la giubba," Pagliacci<em>

_++"Act! While in delirium, I no longer know what I say, or what I do!" ~ "Vesti la giubba," Pagliacci_


	4. Act IV

_Being Bob _

_Act IV, Scene I_

_"I wasted time, and now doth time waste me." ~ King Richard II, Act V, Scene V_

The aroma of last night's Chinese takeout hung heavy in the air after being reheated for this afternoon's early supper. The wonton soup didn't smell quite right. Or maybe it was the egg rolls? Still, they tasted fine as leftovers, lacking of course their original zest. And the smell DID cover the reek of cigarette smoke that had been infused into every permeable surface in the room.

Bob had requested checking into a non-smoking room after a few days of the stench brutalized his sinuses, but no such luck would befall him. Only eight of the motel's twenty-six rooms were designated non-smoking, and all eight had been booked solid ever since he'd checked in over two weeks ago. The one time a non-smoking room opened up, it had been immediately given to a new arrival, which infuriated Bob since he had specifically asked not two days earlier to be upgraded at the first opportunity.

The past few days were a blur. There was no seam to separate day from night behind the thick curtains; only a barely discernible transition from gloom to even darker gloom. Alcohol smoothed out any rough surfaces, perfecting the haze in which Bob had resigned himself to live in. This dingy motel room had become his self-imposed prison cell, himself his own coldly indifferent warden.

Sprawled out on a bed in a stained wife beater and black-soled socks, he resembled a degenerate Al Bundy with a remote control in one hand and the other tucked comfortably under the waistband of his boxers. He retained his sophistication and dignity by watching the BBC, National Geographic and various other intellectual channels, as if somehow that would combat the constant assault of alcohol on his brain cells.

He'd gone and put in an application at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant a few days earlier, and had been contacted promptly to schedule an interview with plant owner C. Montgomery Burns. Bob reasoned that if Homer Simpson (aka 'any idiot') could get a job there, then certainly he, Robert Underdunk Terwilliger, Jr., Yale graduate, esteemed classical actor and champion of high culture, would have no difficulty acquiring a position worthy of his lofty credentials. Despite his confidence, as the days wore on leading up to his interview, he found himself sinking into another pit of apathy and depression.

Now here he lay, in soiled underclothes, on a soiled bed, neither of which had been changed in days, surrounded by empty bottles, greasy takeout boxes, torn Playboys, crusts and crumbs and wrinkled, unwashed clothes. A severe case of bed head made his hair even more unruly than usual, and four days' worth of stubble gave his long face an aged look. Tomorrow was his interview with Mr. Burns, and he would arrive looking his finest, but until then, he couldn't care less about anything. Even himself.

He reached for the half-empty bottle on the nightstand, unscrewed the lid, and took a drink.

Life had been a gradual downhill slope ever since he'd become Krusty the Clown's unwitting sidekick. Always being pushed and pushed and pushed too far by one thing or another, it seemed, until one day he'd snapped and pushed back, framing his employer for armed robbery. Being foiled by a mere child, he'd snapped again, and pushed back even harder. Bob had always had anger issues, had always lashed out at the world one way or another. Why? He'd never given it much thought until recently, when he'd been cast out of paradise by his faux family and the fair-weather citizens of Salsiccia. It had been one blow too many, and in the end he'd realized that he had no one to blame but himself.

He took another swig.

It would have been far too easy to have murdered Bart Simpson, Krusty - anyone who'd ever crossed him. He was far from inept. He'd practiced archery, fencing and various other sports and hobbies that had honed his physical prowess. He was a skilled marksman and swordsman, and even without those talents he could have ended many lives effortlessly. Anyone can fire a gun or wield a knife. Bob COULD have been a murderer. But he wasn't. No matter how much his rage consumed him, he'd always held fast to a shred of sanity, enough to keep him from taking that final step into that black void from which he could never return.

He took another large gulp. The vodka stung his throat.

After all he'd done, all the chances he'd had, he'd never harmed a single hair on Bart Simpson's head, and no one who'd truly paid attention could ever accuse him otherwise. Thoroughly terrorizing the boy had been sufficient, yet it was never enough to conquer his own demons, only to keep them at bay a little while longer. It just wasn't in him to take a life, and all along some part of him had known that. It was that little part of him that spared the world from the wrath of Sideshow Bob.

Why, then, did he always allow himself to get caught? Was it some deeply rooted desire for attention? To punish himself? Or perhaps to stop himself before he did something truly abhorrent? Was that his subconscious way of safeguarding the world from his rage? He'd ask the man in the mirror, if he could only find the courage to face him. Mirrors had become enemies, things he couldn't bear to look at half of the time for fear of the monster that lived inside. This was no way to live. He had to make a new life for himself, become a brand new Bob - starting tomorrow, with his interview at the nuclear power plant.

He drained the bottle and drifted off to sleep.

...

_Scene II_

When Bob awoke again, the world beyond the curtains was a soft pearly blue fading into grey. A sliver of the motel's neon sign could also be seen flickering to life. From where he lay he could make out the one functioning letter E and the dark space beside it where its twin had died out, rendering the Sleep-Eazy Motel the more aptly nicknamed 'Sleazy Motel'.

As if to lend credence to this moniker, the sound of girlish giggles preceded a shapely figure passing by Bob's window. A second, more rotund figure followed. Their footsteps slowed and halted just outside his door. At the sound of a key card being swiped, Bob sat bolt upright in bed. The door swung open and he found himself staring at none other than Springfield's infamous Mayor Quimby. Clutching his arm was a busty blonde in a clingy red cocktail dress. She had a flamboyant hairstyle that clearly belonged in the eighties, which, judging by her apparent age, was most likely older than the girl herself.

"Oh! Excuse me!" Quimby muttered, taking a step back out of the room. He glanced at the numbers on the door, then back at Bob. "Er, uh, isn't this room sixteen?"

"No, it isn't." With a frustrated sigh, Bob stood up and walked to the door. "It's nineteen. See?" With a slender finger he turned the tarnished brass '6', which hung loosely by a single screw, over and upward until it stood level with the number 1. It was now very plainly a 9.

Quimby looked embarrassed by his mistake. "Ah, yes, well... I, er, uh, I thought they were those, uh, fancy slanting numbers."

Bob nodded but made no remark about how their key card had somehow been programmed to unlock HIS door. He glanced around at the other doors, suspecting that they could all be opened with the same key card. It was half tempting to make a round of all the rooms and try out his own card on them just to see if he was right.

He took his finger off the brass number and it slid back down to hang in its previous position. The blonde gasped and placed her finger on it next. "Look at that, Joe! It's a six! And now it's a nine!" She twirled it up and down. "Six. Nine. Six. Nine. Six. Nine - OH! I totally get it now!" She turned to Bob with a grin that was both childlike and sultry. "Hey mister, do YOU know why they call it a sixty-nine?"

Bob stared at her, resisting a smirk. "No. Why?"

Before she could answer, the brass 9 fell off the door, clattering on the concrete walkway. The girl bent over to pick it up, giving Bob a brief but enticing view of her cleavage. When she stood up again her hair brushed the front of his boxers. He stepped back a moment too late.

"Wow, mister, you've sure got big feet!" she exclaimed, handing him the 9. "You know what they say about guys with big feet, dontcha?"

Again Bob stared at her, incredulous. "No. What?"

She shrugged. "I don't know either!"

Mayor Quimby cleared his throat. "Er, come along now, Syphilis," he mumbled, taking her by the elbow. "I, er, think we've disturbed this gentleman long enough."

"It's Sylvia Phyllis!" the girl protested. "Not 'Silly Philly' or whatever you just called me!"

"Same difference."

Bob sighed and shut the door, this time using the manual lock to prevent another key card from gaining access to his room. A few minutes later, and after what sounded like an ugly altercation with a drunk they'd intruded on, Quimby and his date finally located their own room, which, unfortunately for Bob, happened to be right next door.

The sound of moans and squeaky bed springs traveled through the thin wall that separated his room from theirs. Bob maxed the volume on the remote, but it did little good as the TV was currently featuring a soft-spoken drama on the BBC channel. Unable to tune them out, he soon found himself bothered by the scandalous noises in more ways than one. Fishing a Playboy out from under his pillow, he flipped it open to the centerfold (who bore a convenient resemblance to Quimby's date) but his heart wasn't in it.

Some of his cellmates had teased him for not subscribing to more explicit adult magazines, but frankly he'd found most of them to be nothing but stomach-churning smut. Was it not enough for most men to simply appreciate the beauty of the female form without tainting the image with bodily fluids and foreign objects crammed where they don't belong? Perhaps he WAS too sophisticated for his own good, which explained why the ruckus next door failed to arouse him.

His thoughts wandered from the act itself to the people involved. _MAYOR Quimby, now there's a joke! _Bob snorted. How that sordid excuse for a mayor managed to avoid bloody impeachment was nothing short of an undeserved mercy. He cared nothing for the citizens of Springfield, unless they were stuffing his pockets or sleeping with him. Bob, on the other hand, had been a very personable mayor, faithful to his 'wife' and to all appearances had been a doting father. What cruel irony that HE should be robbed of his post while that doltish philanderer in the next room remained in office!

And that bimbo... what self-respecting woman would be caught dead in the same bed with Quimby? Not counting the former Miss Springfield, whose giggles were like sandpaper on the eardrums. No self respect there. Not a drop. Francesca, on the other hand... she was a strong-willed, intelligent woman, someone Bob could have easily admired, were it not for the fact that she'd had too much self respect. She'd walked all over him in her delusions of grandeur. And he'd allowed it. If he wasn't playing the role of villain, he was playing the victim.

He rolled over and opened the drawer on the nightstand. Inside lay an unopened bottle of Bacardi next to an unopened Bible. He reached for his poison, then paused, eyeing the book beside it. His hand moved toward the latter as if deciding on its own, but stopped again. His fingers trembled, and he suddenly felt as though touching either one of them would scald his flesh. With a sigh he shut the drawer and went to get a drink of water from the bathroom sink instead.

Somewhere between villain and victim, and slightly above, was a role Bob knew he was destined to fill. No great highs, no deep lows. Just a normal human being. He forced himself to look at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, glaring hard at the man he both loved and loathed like no other. He'd lived at both ends of the spectrum, and both came with their hefty price. He was sick and tired of having to play the role of someone else, to don another's facade and act the part of jester or king, traipsing across the worldly stage in shoes that were either far too large or far too small. It was high time to stop pretending to be something he wasn't and to start living his own life. It was time to start being Bob.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry if that wasn't the most entertaining chapter. It wasn't until after I'd posted Act III that I realized I wanted to write a little something on Bob's inner struggle, and from what I've got plotted out, there was no place it would fit into the story except right here.<em>


	5. Act V

_Being Bob_

_Act V, Scene I_

_"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." ~ Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene V_

Puffing out his chest with a deep breath, Bob entered Mr. Burns' office with his head held high. He was dressed to impress in his best suit and tie, having traded in the last of his Armani suits for a far cozier English brand that he'd grown up with. It was the type of suit he would have worn as mayor, had Francesca not been such an overbearing fashion tyrant. If it wasn't made in Italy, it was inferior in her eyes. Which would explain her constant attempts to "correct" his inherent British-American mannerisms. The woman had been so obsessed with maintaining a perfect image that she'd had to make everyone around her as fake as she was.

Looking around Mr. Burns' lavish office, Bob got the impression of a man hellbent on projecting a similarly intimidating image. It reminded him of his own office back in Salsiccia: it boasted of a big, powerful man, yet it was far too grandiloquent for any mortal to claim convincingly. Like Gino attempting to strut around in "Papa's" giant shoes. It just didn't fit.

On one wall hung a larger-than-life oil portrait of a bald, vulture-like man, dressed for the cold, standing proudly with a rifle atop a dead polar bear in the midst of an Arctic wasteland. Below this painting stood the actual bear, stuffed and mounted on an oak platform, teeth bared and poised to attack. On another wall hung an equally immense portrait of the same man, armed with a musket, charging alone against an entire army of Red Coats and impaling the nearest one on his bayonet.

Bob smirked. He wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended. He approached the spacious desk. If he'd thought his own desk was big, it was nothing compared to this one. The subject of the gruesome portraits sat behind it, reading a newspaper and looking not at all intimidating like the paintings would suggest. He seemed unaware that he had a visitor, even though it was now two-thirty - time for the scheduled interview.

Bob cleared his throat. Nothing. Only a faint rustling as Mr. Burns turned the page of his newspaper. Bob stepped closer and cleared his throat again, louder this time. Mr. Burns glanced over the top of his paper, then set it down. Bob was about to introduce himself when the old man pushed a button on the intercom device on his desk.

"Smithers! Get in here and water that potted palm. It sounds drier than a jolly caucus race!"* There was a garbled reply coupled with the hiss of static, then silence. Mr. Burns stared so intensely at Bob that the normally eloquent younger man suddenly found himself tongue-tied.

"Er -"

The door opened, and in stepped a bespectacled man holding a watering can. He paused when he saw Bob. "Sir?"

"You're too late, Smithers," said Mr. Burns. "The red leaves, the yellow bark... this palm tree is obviously dead. Get rid of it!" He fluttered a hand in a shooing gesture at Bob.

"I'm here for my interview," Bob said quickly, fearing dismissal.

Mr. Burns stared at him again. He seemed to shrink in his plush leather chair. "Smithers, it's talking to me," he murmured to his assistant.

"That's not a palm tree, sir. That's your two-thirty appointment," Smithers explained.

Bob nodded and smiled. "Robert Terwilliger," he introduced himself, extending a hand across the desk. Mr. Burns glanced at the hand but did not move to shake it.

"And what makes you think you can just waltz into my office and demand a job interview?" he asked flatly.

Bob withdrew his hand as well as his smile. "The fact that I submitted a job application and was called the following day to schedule an interview for this very date and time," he answered smartly.

"Have you any experience working at a nuclear plant?"

Bob hesitated. "To be perfectly frank: no. My skills and interests revolve more around the arts - theater, opera and the like. I graduated from Yale with a bachelor's degree in classical studies and was once an active member of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Most recently I finished serving a term as mayor of a quaint but industrious little village in Italy."

Mr. Burns snorted. "Is that supposed to impress me?"

"Well -"

"Sir," Smithers interrupted. "I ran a background check, and this man has an extensive criminal record." He pulled a file from a drawer and set it on the desk. Bob glared at him but kept silent. Mr. Burns scanned the file, his furrowed brow rising higher and higher the further he read.

"Ah! Now that IS impressive! Perjury, grand larceny, terrorism... you're just the man this corporation needs!" He stood up with a grin.

"Sir! You wouldn't hire an individual with THAT kind of record?" Smithers protested. "That's completely unethical!"

"Oh, pish posh! Why, in this post-Eisenhower era, I wouldn't trust an applicant WITHOUT a criminal record!" Mr. Burns walked around his desk and laid a hand on Bob's shoulder. "Smithers, I want you to set this felonious fellow up in some sort of supervisory position, posthaste! And slap a nice title on it. A little razzle to dazzle the other employees."

Smithers smirked. "Super-duper-visor it is, then."

Bob grinned. This was even easier than he'd thought. "Mr. Burns, I cannot even begin to express my gratitude in a proper fashion, short of kissing your feet."

"And you'll do no such thing, so long as you're the senior executive supervisor of Sector Seven! With that lofty position you'll enjoy the perks of having subordinates bestow kisses on YOUR colossal feet!"

Smithers raised a brow. "How much morphine have you had today, sir?"

Mr. Burns smiled and shrugged. "Oh, not much. Just enough to turn a charging rhino into a prancing poodle." He turned to Bob again. "Say, do you know another way to stop a rhinoceros from charging?"

"Take away his credit cards?" Smithers grumbled, but Mr. Burns ignored him.

Bob thought for a moment. "Bribery? Blackmail? Extortion?"

Mr. Burns nodded. "I like the way you think, Mr. Terwilliger. Welcome aboard!"

Bob mirrored his evil grin and steepled fingers. "Excellent," both men said in unison.

* * *

><p><em>*Reference to a line from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll<em>


	6. Act VI

_Being Bob_

_Act VI, Scene I_

_"To do a great right, do a little wrong." ~ __The Merchant of Venice, Act IV, Scene I_

Homer Simpson, safety inspector of Sector 7G, walked along an empty corridor humming a cheerful tune, a clipboard in one hand and a Twix bar in the other. He stopped beside a junction of pipes running along the wall and read the notes affixed to the clipboard.

_'Evidence of leak in main coolant pipe.'_

He glanced up at the pipe, which indeed appeared to be leaking. A faintly glowing green substance trickled down the wall and formed a little pool on the floor. Homer shoved the remainder of the candy bar in his mouth, then pulled some napkins from the cafeteria out of his pants pocket. Wadding them up, he wiped away all traces of the toxic ooze from pipe to floor. After cramming the napkins back into his pocket, he took the pen attached to the clipboard and made a new note: '_Evidence removed.'_

Further down the corridor, around a corner and through a door, he stopped before a set of gauges and dials. He checked his notes.

_'Ionizing radiation levels in tertiary reactor chamber unbelievably dangerous.'_

Tucking the clipboard under his arm, Homer set about making some adjustments. After a minute he took up his pen again and wrote the following: _'Ionizing radiation set to more believably dangerous level.'_

Last on the list was a report of smoke being detected in the control room he worked in. Returning to this room, he wrote NO SMOKING on a piece of paper and taped it to the wall. Satisfied with himself, Homer sat back in his chair and put his feet up for a well-earned break. He smiled up at the sign, at first proud of this small accomplishment. But the longer he looked at it, the more his smile faded and his brow furrowed, until he was glaring spitefully at it.

With a growl, he stood up suddenly. "You're not the boss of me!" he shouted at the sign. He then tore it down, crumpled it up, and threw it at the wastepaper basket. It bounced off the junk food wrappers crammed into the top of the overflowing basket and landed on the floor. He moved to pick it up and accidentally spilled a can of flat orange soda on the grid, causing the mechanism to spark and sizzle.

Before Homer could utter his trademark "D'oh!" the door slid open and in walked the new senior executive supervisor of Sector 7.

"AAAH! Sideshow Bob!" Homer shrieked and dove behind his chair.

"Please, there'll be none of that nonsense while I'm in charge," Bob replied coolly. "I am not your enemy; merely your supervisor..." Homer began to emerge from behind his chair, "...although there is a very fine line between the two," Bob added with a fiendish grin that sent Homer in retreat.

"AAAH! Supervisor Bob!"

Bob rolled his eyes. He sniffed, catching the scent of smoke, and looked at the bubbling orange mess on the grid.

"Care to explain this?" he asked.

Homer shook his head. "Not really, no."

Bob smirked. "That report I gave you - have you finished with it or not?" He stepped forward, holding a hand out expectantly. Homer stood up slowly and handed him the clipboard, grinning proudly. Bob put on his half moon glasses to read the notes. His expression flickered between amused, confused, shocked and enraged.

"What is this nonsensical drivel?" he demanded, waving the clipboard in Homer's face. "I believe I asked for a status report, not a - a - I can't even think of anything asinine enough to compare this to!"

"That good, huh?"

"GOOD?" Bob snapped. "You think THIS is good? Here I wrote _'Hydraulic control valve in turbine hall 2B nearly needs replacement,' _to which you oh so wittily replied _'Nearly replaced hydraulic control valve in turbine hall 2B_.'"

Homer just stared at him. Bob growled and continued reading.

"Let's see... _'Evidence of mice in secondary reactor chamber.'_ Your solution? _'Installed cat.' 'Something loose in moisture separator'... 'Something tightened in moisture separator'... _Ah, now this one is rich: _'Suspected crack in fission chamber pressure valve.' _Your sparkling repartee? _'Suspect you're right.'" _

With a stiff nod Bob removed the papers from the clipboard, folded them, and tucked them into his suit jacket. He took a couple of slow, deep breaths to calm himself, all the while glaring daggers at Homer.

"You are, without a doubt, the single most incompetent -"

The door swished open before he could finish his insult. Mr. Burns entered the room, with his shadow Smithers close at his heels.

"Ah, Mr. Terwilliger! I thought I'd find you here," Burns said pleasantly. "How's your first week on the job treating you?"

Homer gasped. "What the - he's only been here a week and you already know his name? I've worked here for ten years and you still call me 'that blubbery oaf,' which, I'll have you know, is NOT my real name... any longer. I had it legally changed eight years ago."

But Mr. Burns hadn't heard a word of Homer's tirade. He was too busy listening to his new employee's various complaints.

"This buffoon doesn't know a doughnut from a hydrogen atom!" Bob declared, pointing a finger at Homer.

"Yes I do!" Homer argued. "Doughnuts are glazed... unless they're not." He paused to think about that. "And I'm pretty sure they taste better than hydro-whatsits atoms! Unless the atoms are glazed... mmm, glazed atoms." His eyes became unfocused and he started to drool.

Bob snorted and looked at his watch. "Oh! Mr. Burns, normally I detest imposing an inconvenience on an employer, but would it be at all possible for me to take off a tad early today? You see, I'm starting a new job this evening, and as it happens to be located on the far side of town..."

Mr. Burns frowned. "The audacity of such a request shall not be dignified with a response, other than 'release the hounds!'"

"The hounds aren't here, sir," Smithers murmured, standing right behind him. "You keep them in the kennel at home, remember?"

Mr. Burns grumbled. "Very well. You win this round, Terwilliger. You may leave... but before you go, I want you to punish one of your underlings in your place!"

Bob nodded and turned to Homer with a wicked grin. "Simpson, you'll be working overtime every night this week," he announced cordially.

"D'oh!"

Mr. Burns smiled. "Excellent."

...

_Scene II_

"All right, Bob. This is it. You've come this far; no backing out now. You are going to walk out onto that stage and give your all to that crowd!"

Waiting for his cue, Bob paced back and forth, wishing alternately for time to speed up or stand still. One moment he felt emboldened, even eager. The next moment he had cold feet - both literally and figuratively. If he stopped pacing long enough, his bare feet became aware of the frigid linoleum beneath them.

Beyond the curtain, loud techno music started playing. That was his cue.

"Chin up, Bob. They can strip you of your clothes, but they can never strip you of your dignity!"

He took a deep breath and held it, puffing his chest out. Flinging the curtain back, he stepped boldly out onto the stage. Spotlights momentarily blinded him as he looked around, unable to make out any faces in the audience although he had no trouble hearing their cheers. He wore a frilly satin dress shirt, plain white, with black trousers, but no socks or shoes. He almost didn't bother with a costume at all, knowing that the women in the audience only cared about what was underneath. Still, the thespian in him had insisted on a classy facade (and classier music as well, but the club owners had refused to indulge his request).

Bob tossed a suave smile at the nearest ladies as he began to unbutton his shirt. Cheers and catcalls quickly grew in volume at the mere sight of his bare chest and abs. Though he didn't possess nearly as much muscle tone as the other male strippers at Springfield Stallions, his vigorous workout regimen in prison had eliminated his pot belly and given him a slight but admirable build.

As the shirt slipped off his shoulders and landed on the stage, Bob began a slow, sensual swaying motion of his hips. First from side to side, then in a circular motion, culminating in an erotic pelvic thrust that incited those nearest the stage to scream and reach for his groin. Bob couldn't help smirking at this. They hadn't seen anything yet.

He slid a hand down his smooth chest and stomach, and lower. Grabbing the crotch of his pants, he tore them off and flung them into the crowd. There was a brief fight over the garment, but it was impossible to know who won, because the moment his pants were off the crowd went completely wild.

There he stood, naked except for a skimpy maroon thong that left almost nothing to the imagination.

At the roar of the crowd, something seemed to awaken in Bob - something as raw and as primal as the sea of raging hormones surrounding him. Without giving any thought to it, Bob moved to the rhythm of the music, forgetting his choreographed routine in favor of improvisation. Even though this was his first performance on the erotic stage, in a way it felt like second nature to him. He was a very graceful dancer, despite his enormous feet, having taken gymnastics and ballet throughout high school and college. Within minutes nearly fifty dollars in mostly small bills had been tucked into the waistband of his thong by zealous patrons. And they still hadn't seen anything yet.

When the big moment came - when the last article of clothing concealing Bob's manhood from the ogling eyes of over three dozen women (and a handful of men) was finally discarded - the roar of the crowd was positively deafening. Even a few of the other male strippers were curious enough to have a peek from backstage just to see what all the fuss was about.

Bob quickly lost count of all the tips that came flooding in after that, though he did not fail to notice the two twenties and a ten being offered to him by a familiar-looking woman with short, platinum blonde hair.

"I knew you were right for this job!" she said loudly over the cheers and catcalls.

Bob blushed, remembering her as the receptionist at Costingtons - the very person who'd suggested Springfield Stallions to him in the first place.

"Er, that's quite the generous tip, Miss... Naegle," he said, recalling her name. He looked at the money in her hand but did not take it. Fifty dollars was a lot coming from a single person, even in a strip club.

"Take it, hun," Lindsey replied, pressing the bills against his naked chest. "You deserve it. It's the least I could do after you helped me settle a bet AND made Tuesday night my new favorite night of the week."

Bob raised a brow. "What sort of bet?"

Lindsey smiled seductively. "Oh, just proving the old rumor about men's shoe size." Her eyes roamed downward, but it wasn't his feet they lingered on.

With a fiery blush, Bob thanked her for the tip and moved on to another upheld fistful of money. When he saw that this one held a hundred dollar bill, he nearly pinched himself to see if he were dreaming. He wrapped his slender fingers around the plump hand that offered it, giving it a light squeeze in gratitude. Another heavy hand fell on top of his, trapping it. This hand was connected to a flabby arm, which in turn was attached to the husky figure of another familiar face - one far less welcoming than Miss Naegle's.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't ex Mr. Bouvier!" croaked a troll-like voice.

Bob blinked, staring at the woman in disbelief. "Selma?"

She smirked, looking him over. Bob's skin crawled wherever her eyes wandered. He felt the sudden need to take a long, scalding shower when he got back to the motel.

"Nice to see you lost that belly," Selma commented, but of course her gaze was not on his stomach.

This time Bob smirked. "Nice to see you found it," he replied coolly, for the first time taking in her appearance. She looked no better than she had during their brief marriage. No surprise there. "Now if you'll excuse me..." He tried to pull away, but her grip on his hand tightened.

"Ah-ah-ah! That isn't a tip, Bobby," she purred, referring to the money in her hand. "If you want that Benjamin, you're going to have to earn it... by giving me a private lap dance!"

Bob turned paler than normal and shuddered. As Selma led him toward the VIP room like a prize catch, he wondered vaguely if she would still pay him well despite his sudden impotence.

* * *

><p>BWAHAHAHAHAHA! Aren't I evil? XD<p> 


	7. Act VII

_Being Bob_

_Act VII, Scene I_

_"I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart, but the saying is true: 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound'." ~ King Henry V, Act IV, Scene IV_

"Farewell, my ownnn! Light of my life, farewelllllll! For crime unknownnn, I go to a dungeon celllllllll!"*

Though Bob's quiet voice rang melodiously down the dank corridors of Sector Seven, his heart wasn't in it. Gilbert and Sullivan simply couldn't express the melancholy that settled on his shoulders like a raven of Poe's.

Gingerly touching his fingertips to a pipe, he found it pleasantly cool to the touch. He traced its smooth metal length along the wall as he walked, his thoughts far from Springfield. Suddenly he was clutching a balcony railing, looking down on the citizens of Salciccia as they went about their daily routines. The faint stirrings of an overhead vent became a lukewarm Mediterranean breeze.

As the air grew colder, Bob found himself in England, at the very top of the London Eye, the giant Ferris wheel overlooking the River Thames. He'd only been on it once, over a decade ago, but the memory was still vivid. He'd always meant to go back, but then he'd ended up in America, attending Yale and getting suckered into a degrading internship-turned-subjugation to Krusty the Clown.

Why didn't he just up and go home, then? Why did he always return to Springfield? Because somehow, sadly, it just made more sense this way. Because every single time he tripped up, every single time he stumbled and fell from his self-erected pedestal, every time he flew too close to the sun and burned his wings, Springfield was always there for him. This glorified hellhole was the net that kept him from hitting rock bottom.

And yet, how he loathed this town. His numerous attempts to inject some class into it were met with ignorance and resistance. It had taken him a lot to finally realize that one simply cannot force a common garden slug to transform into a butterfly. Cruel as the metaphor was, that was his brutal but honest opinion. If the people of Springfield resented the comparison, that was their problem, not his.

At the end of the hall Bob paused, his hand still resting on the pipe. The metal surface felt warmer here, and wet. Suddenly he yanked his hand from the pipe to cover his nose and mouth, catching a sneeze. The wet feeling on both his face and hand had nothing to do with the sneeze, he realized a moment too late. He looked from his wet hand to the pipe he'd been touching, the latter dripping a clear liquid, although there were no visible cracks. Whether it was merely condensation or an actual leak, he did not know, nor did he want to know at that moment.

Bob made a mad dash toward the nearest emergency decontamination shower, shoving past a handful of workers who laughed uproariously as their supervisor doused himself from head to toe for the second time that week. The first time had been after one of the men poured the contents of a glow stick into a glass beaker and then "accidentally" spilled it on Bob as a joke. In a panic he'd stripped down to socks and underwear before hitting the shower. He'd refused to put his contaminated clothes back on afterward until Smithers heard about the prank and explained to Bob that it was merely a practical joke that some of the seasoned workers liked to play on new employees.

This time, however, Bob didn't remove any clothes, and he didn't come out of the shower until he was thoroughly drenched. Pushing his sopping hair out of his eyes, he growled at the laughing men, but said nothing. He knew that this time he had no one to blame but himself for panicking over a harmless water pipe leak. One of the men tossed him a towel, but as he was laughing too Bob opted not to thank him. Considerably calmer now (but in no better a mood) Bob now took the time to read a sign beside the decontamination shower that he hadn't noticed before.

_WARNING! The chemicals in this facility are known to cause the following health symptoms: __projectile perspiration, audible eyeballs, defused anus, irritable ovaries, acrid elbow odor, illegible handwriting, hysterical male pregnancy, disembodied earwax, brain murmurs, Cockney accent, testicular retreat, existential angst, chronic presbyterianism, absent nostrils, toenail anemia, increased libido, decreased libido, heightened eyelash sensitivity, compulsive preening, paranoia, unibrow, death and double death._

Bob smirked at the sign. Great. Whether this was another joke or not, he found a dark, unsettling humor about it. Wouldn't it be just his luck to have one of these issues? Sometimes he wondered about the hysterical male pregnancy. Not to mention his libido being all over the place. And he WAS brushing and styling his hair a lot more often lately (was it so wrong to pride oneself on looking fabulous?). Probably just signs of a mid-life crisis in the works.

Shuffling down a corridor with the towel wrapped around him, Bob's svelte body collided with a much wider body upon rounding a corner.

"Oof!" Bob practically bounced off Homer, who was unmoved by the collision.

"Wha - sneak out early? Who said anything about sneaking out early?" Homer blurted out. "I don't have to stand here and take these accusations! I bid you good day, sir!" And with his nose in the air he started to walk away.

"Get back here, Simpson!" Bob called after him. Homer reluctantly obeyed, looking nervous. "First of all, I never accused you of anything, and second, you've still got five more hours of work, which I highly recommend you return to at once before Mr. Burns discovers what an irresponsible employee you really are."

Homer moaned. "Ohhhh, come on! I've been working overtime for the past two nights and it's really putting a dent in my time with the family! And tonight's family game night!"

Bob raised a brow.

"The guys at the bar are depending on me to referee their beer pong tournament!"

Bob frowned. For a long moment he just glared at the blubbery oaf who had sired his arch-nemesis. Then his expression softened and he sighed. "Fine. Go and play your juvenile game," he murmured, waving him off.

Homer stared at him. "Really? You're letting me go?"

Bob grunted in assent, looking like he was already regretting his decision.

"What's the catch?" Homer asked.

"There's no catch," Bob growled. "Just be gone before I change my mind."

With an ecstatic "WOOHOO!" Homer hurried down the hall to punch out. Bob headed in the same direction, his shift having ended at the same time. At the time clock he found Homer chatting eagerly with a couple of co-workers who were also punching out. Bob waited patiently for him to move his wide load before doing the same with an overdramatic sigh.

"Hey, what gives?" Lenny said to Bob. "Shift's over; you should be happy!" The man was clearly in an elated mood himself as he normally never spoke a word to the supervisor unless he had to.

"Yeah," said Carl. "You look like you're punching in instead of punching out."

Bob smirked. "Do I? Hmm, that could be due to the fact that I have a second job to work tonight and only two hours to recuperate from this one."

"Wow," Homer said. "Sucks to be you. Especially when your hair's on fire."

"WHAT?" Bob shrieked and spun around, swatting frantically at his hair. A small auburn lock near the back was smoking, and without a decontamination shower nearby Bob was forced to stop, drop and roll to put it out. The three men chuckled.

"That's why we wear hard hats," Lenny said, knocking on his own headgear before hanging it up by the time clock. "You never know what might be dripping on your head in this place."

"Plus they block the constant barrage of radiation to your brain," Carl added, hanging his up beside Lenny's.

"Indeed," Bob muttered as he stood up, patting his hair. It felt a tad crispy in the back; nothing a quick trim couldn't mend. He looked at Homer. "Might I enquire as to what happened to YOUR hair? Assuming you had any to begin with."

"They don't make plus-size hard hats," was Homer's simple answer.

Bob rolled his eyes. "Right. Well, I've a night shift to brace myself for, so if you'll excuse me, gentlemen..."

Homer slapped a heavy hand on his back before he could walk away. "Say, why don't you join us at Moe's for a drink?"

"And why would I want to do that, pray tell?" Bob muttered as he shrugged Homer's arm off.

"'Cuz it's Beer Pong Night."

Bob sneered. "Tempting, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

"Aw, come on!" Carl joined in. "A coupla drinks and your night shift will be nothing but smooth sailing!"

Bob reconsidered. Perhaps a bit of the devil's brew would give him the gonads to step out onto that strip club stage. He might have actually enjoyed his new job if it weren't for the fact that a certain ex-wife of his attended every show. And, well, he DID spend the large part of their honeymoon inebriated in order to perform his husbandly duties without being sick. And she never even suspected! So why not?

...

_Scene II_

_"O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee Devil." ~ __Othello, Act II, Scene III _

Bob kept to himself during the beer pong 'tournament', which consisted of only four players (Homer and Barney against Lenny and Carl) and one and a half games - the first being a tie and the second being interrupted by Barney's AA sponsor, real estate agent Cookie Kwan. She'd burst into the bar just as he was chugging down a plastic cupful of beer and started scolding him loudly like an irate mother, to the amusement of his friends.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: stay away from Moe's Tavern! And stay away from the west side!"

After Barney was dragged out by the ear, the second game ended in a draw when Homer failed to talk Bob into teaming up with him. Now the remaining men sat at the bar, unusually quiet. Bob sat hunched over looking sullen as he nursed his second Scotch on the rocks. His presence seemed to color the atmosphere a gloomy shade.

Moe wiped a bit of spilled liquor from the bar and paused in front of Bob, looking the man over. "What's with Lord Sit-n-sulk?" he asked Homer, who was sitting on Bob's right. "He ain't said a word all evening."

"He has a second job he's gotta work in an hour."

Moe gave Bob an empathetic look. "Well that bites." He moved a large jar across the bar and unscrewed the lid. "Have a pickled egg on the house."

Bob's lip curled at the acrid stench of vinegar and brine that wafted from the jar. "Pass."

Homer took that as his cue to swipe a few eggs for himself.

"So what kind of job is it?" Lenny asked, sitting on Bob's other side.

Bob stiffened a little, then his shoulders sagged and he sighed. He didn't look at anyone, but fixed a smoldering glare on his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "If you must know..." he paused as if to build suspense, "...I'm the newest and most popular act at Springfield Stallions." He followed his confession with a large gulp of Scotch, draining his glass and coughing.

"Springfield Stallions?" Carl repeated. "What's that?"

"That's the male strip club on Beaumont Boulevard!" Lenny answered before Bob could. Every man in the bar gave him an odd look. Lenny blushed. "What? I know that because my ex-girlfriend left me for one of the strippers!"

"Yeah, after you took her there for your six-month anniversary," Carl pointed out.

"That's because I'm sensitive to a modern woman's needs!" Lenny argued.

Carl rolled his eyes. "Right."

"Whoa, whoa, hold on a sec here," Moe spoke up. He looked at Bob. "Lemme get this straight: you're a male stripper?"

Bob nodded, sullen as ever.

"So, in other words, dames flock from all over town to see you take off your clothes - AND you're getting paid to do it?"

Bob nodded again, smirking a little as he held his empty glass out and shook it. The ice cubes clinked.

Moe glowered at him. "Oh, woe is me!" he jeered, "I gotta get naked in front of a pack of screaming, drooling babes who all wanna get with me!" He swiped the glass from Bob's hand and refilled it, grumbling obscenely. "And oh no! It gets worse! They're throwing money and panties at me! Boo-hoo-hooooo!" He slammed the glass down on the bar. "Ya snivelin' prick."

Bob frowned. "For your information, it isn't nearly as glamorous as _The Full Monty_ no doubt led you to believe." He'd never seen the movie, but he knew just enough about it to make a basic comparison. "The next time I hear a woman complain about being treated like a piece of meat, I think I can safely say that I empathize with her."

He found it rather ironic, though, that the main cause of these feelings happened to BE women. And to narrow it down, one woman in particular who took a sadistic pleasure in treating him like a sex slave - minus the sex, thank God.

Moe was no more sympathetic after Bob's ex-wife horror story than he was before.

"Whine, whine whine! Ya want some cheese with that?" the bartender sneered.

"Come on, Moe, lay off!" Homer spoke up, putting an arm around Bob. "This poor shlub has to dance for Jabba the Butt and you're giving him the business like it's nobody's business! He almost managed to kill her once, you know," he added proudly.

Bob growled. "Ohhhh, if only I could step out onto that stage tonight without the slightest inkling that SHE'LL be there! The mere memory of my last private audience with her threatens to make the bile rise in my throat." His melodramatic speech captivated everyone's attention. "But alas, her ghost lingers like a malignant tumor in my brain, and I fear there is no way to silence the poltergeist, short of taking a scalpel to my frontal lobe!" He pulled at his hair in frustration, as if he could feel Selma's slimy presence in his head.

"Wow," Homer muttered, "I didn't think anyone hated Selma more than me. But if you just want to forget about her... hmmmm..." He scratched his chin, thinking. "Hey Moe, how about making my ex-brother-in-law-now-supervisor a Forget-Me-Shot?"

Bob raised a brow, looking from Homer to Moe quizzically. "Forget-Me-Shot? Dare I ask?"

"It'll be like drowning Selma in an acid bath while drowning yourself in a champagne bath," Homer said with a grin.

"You wanna clear your mind, this stuff is like brain Drano!" said Carl.

"Yeah, Moe shoulda called it Braino!" Lenny added.

"Ehh, Braino was already trademarked," muttered Moe as he pulled a videotape from underneath the bar and popped it into the TV/VCR hanging from the ceiling.

Bob watched the screen as a slightly staticky version of Moe explained how to make the drink in question.

"You start with a splash of Jägermeister, then add sloe gin, triple sec, quadruple sec, gunk from a dog's eye, Absolut Pickle, the red stripe from Aquafresh, and the funniest ingredient, the venom of the Lousiana Lobotomoth. You stir it with a home pregnancy test till it turns positive, and presto: the Forget-Me-Shot! This drink is the ultimate brain bleacher. One swig wipes out the last day of your life."

Moe stopped the video and turned to Bob with a grin. "So whadda ya say? Want me to whip you up one of them memory killers?"

Bob made a sickened face. "Why would I want to put my lips to something so appalling, much less ingest it?"

"Cuz it really works. Just ask Homer. Or not. He don't remember a thing. And because it'll getcha where ya wanna go a lot faster than these watered-down Scotches you been drinkin'."

Bob looked from the beady-eyed bartender to Homer's expression of blissful naivete, considering. After a moment, he looked back at Moe with a firm nod.

Moe set to work immediately. Halfway through preparing the drink, he paused. "Uh, oh. Looks like we're all out of the red stripe of Aquafresh." He gave Bob an apologetic look and chuckled sheepishly. "I, uh, I used it all up tryin' to cure my jock itch."

"The red stripe is hot cinnamon," Carl pointed out.

"Yeah, wouldn't that burn?" Lenny asked.

Moe shook his head. "This is some reeeaalllllly wicked jock itch I'm talkin' about." He looked at the tube of toothpaste. "Hmmm... ya know what? I betcha the blue stripe will still do the job. Yeah. Let's try that."

Bob had a strange sense of foreboding as he watched the blue stripe fall into the glass with the other ingredients. Moe mixed them together with a home pregnancy test, then checked the result.

"What the -? Huh. Never had this happen before." He held the test up for Bob and the others to see. Rather than single or double parallel red lines, there appeared to be a rather sinister-looking, squiggly black X. Moe scratched his head. "Seriously, I can't tell if this is positive, negative or W-T-F!" He tossed the test aside and set the drink in front of Bob. "Oh, well. Enjoy your poison."

Bob stared at the ugly greenish-brown concoction. The foreboding feeling increased tenfold. He slowly raised it to his lips, then held his breath as he downed the entire glass as quickly and cleanly as possible. It burned a path all the way down, hitting his stomach like a tiny H-bomb. The heat poured through him, submersing every nerve and synapse in liquid fire. Suddenly he felt as though he were made of fire, every single neuron in his body screaming in white-hot rage. The world spun around him and he plummeted, falling away from the sun into the icy black abyss of space. Falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and then...

...Bob landed on the cold, sticky linoleum floor of Moe's Tavern, unconscious.

* * *

><p>Sorry for the long wait and sorry for the cliffhanger. I am SO evil! XD<p>

_* "Farewell, My Own" from HMS Pinafore by Gilbert and Sullivan_


	8. Act VIII

_Being Bob_

_Act VIII, Scene I_

_No love toward others in that bosom sits  
>That on himself such murd'rous shame commits. ~ Sonnet IX<em>

Bob awoke slowly, ascending layers of consciousness the way a deep sea diver rises from the ocean's depths. He first became aware of voices; distant at first, and echoing, but growing closer and clearer. The next thing he was aware of was a throbbing pain in his head and a warm fuzzy tingling everywhere else. His eyelids bore lead weights, and it was only with enormous effort that he managed to open them. The conscious world was a blur of color and movement. As he strained to focus, a deep, zombie-ish groan escaped his parched throat, startling himself with its loudness.

"Hey look, I think he's coming around!" said a nasally voice from somewhere above. Bob shifted his immensely heavy head toward the voice, which seemed to belong to a skinny man in suspenders.

"You all right there, buddy?" asked an African-American man, bending over him. "Here, lemme help you up."

It was hard to tell, but he seemed to be offering a hand. Bob reached toward the blur but grabbed air. After a few unsuccessful tries, the man took hold of his hand and pulled. Bob didn't budge.

"Gimme a hand, Lenny!" Carl growled, trying his best to raise his fallen supervisor.

"Can't," Lenny replied. "I got a hernia lifting Homer off the floor last time."

"I'll do it!" Moe spoke up. He hurried around the bar and knelt down on Bob's other side. Bob tried to shrink away from the trollish little man, but in his current position, he could barely move at all. Bile threatened to rise to his throat, and already he could taste the sour acid as if he'd drunk a pint of it before passing out.

The tavern spun around him as he was hoisted up, Carl on one side, Moe on the other and muttering something about lawsuits and liabilities. Far too dizzy to stand on his own, Bob leaned heavily against Carl who, with Moe's help, guided him to a bar stool. Though unable to climb onto it, Bob managed to park one buttock on the stool so that he was sitting half on, half off it, his other leg propping him up. His upper body slumped on top of the bar. He was slightly winded and shaky, and stared off into space with bleary eyes.

"Man, he looks terrible," Lenny remarked.

"Yeah, I think the blue stripe was a bad idea," said Carl, returning to his stool between Bob and Lenny.

"Nothin' a little H-two-O and an aspirin won't cure," Moe murmured as he went to fetch said items from behind the bar.

The sound of a flush preceded Homer out of the men's room.

"Hey! He's up!" With a grin, Homer walked over to Bob and slapped him on the back, making him jolt and sway. "That was a pretty impressive fall you took, and I've watched a lot of drunks hit the floor in my day. You sure know how to pass out with style."

Bob held onto the bar as if for dear life and glared at the fat bald man. "Do I (burp) do I know you?" His voice came out hoarse and wavering, and sounded surprisingly unfamiliar to himself.

"Do you ever!" Homer chuckled. "You've only tried to kill my boy about a dozen times!"

His words hardly made sense to Bob, who struggled to sit up straighter. "Kill?"

"That's right. You tried but you always failed."

Suddenly Bob felt sick. He looked around. "Where's the restroom? And... where am I exactly?"

"Jeez, that drink really did a number on him," Carl muttered, watching Bob try to stand on both feet while glancing about in confusion.

"Can's that way," Moe pointed toward the back.

Bob nodded and started walking toward it. The first few steps went smoothly, but a sudden bout of dizziness made him sway and stumble into Lenny on his stool. Homer chuckled and put an arm around him.

"I've gotcha, pal. Come on."

"No, I can d- (hic!) I can do it!" Bob tried to pull away, but Homer held on tighter. "Urgh, lemme go! Unhand me, you oaf!"

"I'm trying to help you, jerk!" Homer growled, grabbing and pulling Bob back toward him when he managed to break free a moment.

Bob shoved his hand in Homer's face, trying to push him off. He felt teeth against his fingers and yanked his hand away for fear of being bitten. The sudden movement caused the already disoriented man to stagger backward. He swung both arms out, grabbing the collar of Homer's shirt in one hand and air in the other. The empty fist swung wildly, grazing Homer's cheek. Thinking it was deliberate, Homer retaliated by grabbing a lock of Bob's hair and pulling hard. This made Bob stumble forward, saving him from falling one way while threatening to make him fall the opposite way. He collided with Homer, and suddenly both men were simultaneously pushing and pulling at each other in a desperate attempt to break free of the other's grip while trying to stay standing.

A sharp pain in Bob's foot made him howl when Homer stepped on it accidentally. The sudden loud noise startled Homer and he fell back against the bar, tearing out a fistful of Bob's hair, also an accident. Bob yelled again, incoherent curses and animal sounds pouring from his mouth nonstop. He clutched at his head, hangover and hair-ripping pain pulsing through it, causing him to see red literally for a moment.

When his vision cleared, he saw the bald man standing before him, staring in fearful awe. Several long strands of curly auburn hair hung from his fat fist.

A deep, rumbling, lionesque growl rose from Bob's throat. His eyes narrowed to slits in his pallid face, his teeth bared like the fangs of a wolf. Slowly he raised a fist and extended his index finger, pointing it at Homer's face with all the malice of a dagger.

"YOU!" he snarled, breathing raggedly and foaming at the mouth. "YOU DIE NOW!"

Without warning Bob lunged at him. Homer dashed just in time, feeling Bob's fingernails graze his backside. He bolted out the door with Bob close on his heels. Under normal circumstances, Homer would have been overtaken by the lanky man within seconds. But these were not normal circumstances. For Bob, a man who worked out regularly and rarely drank to excess, intoxication weighed him down. By contrast Homer, a man who drank daily and whose idea of exercise was leisurely following the ice cream truck down the block while finishing his fudgesicle so he could buy another one, happened to have sobriety on his side.

Home was only a few blocks down the street, but to Homer it felt like a hundred miles. Panting heavily, he reached the front door and was about to burst through it when it opened. Marge blocked the doorway.

"I just steam-cleaned the carpets!" she told him. "You're not coming inside with those dirty shoes on!"

"But Marge - !"

"No buts! Take them off!"

"But -"

"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

Bob was on the front lawn, lumbering toward him with his arms outstretched, nearly within strangling distance. Homer shrieked.

"AAAH! No time!"

He ran around the house toward the backyard with Bob in hot pursuit. Out of nowhere the garden hose tripped him up. Homer landed on his hands and knees and scrambled for the doghouse. Bob lunged at him, eyes gleaming like knife blades.

A loud piercing _THWACK_ rang out through the neighborhood. Bob staggered backwards from the impact of the rake handle to his face. He backed into a trellis and became entangled in the rosebush growing on it. He yelped at the thorns and struggled to break free, only to collide with a hanging bird feeder and wind chimes. Swaying to sidestep these, he stepped on a skateboard on the patio. It rolled forward suddenly, pitching him face-first into the trunk of a large tree. Staggering back from this, he glanced upward just in time to see a metal bucket on a rope come falling from the treehouse above. It hit him square in the face and he tripped backward over a tricycle before hitting the ground, unconscious.

An unsettling silence filled the air. Homer backed out of the doghouse and stood up, staring in shock at the body on the lawn. Bart climbed down from the tree. Marge opened the back door, gasped, and rushed outside, Maggie and Lisa following.

"Homer! What's Sideshow Bob doing in our backyard?"

Lisa cautiously approached the unconscious man. "He's hurt! What did you do to him, Bart?"

"Nothing!" Bart replied, coming to stand beside her. Lisa glared at him. "Fine, I dropped a bucket on his head. The rest he did to himself."

Santa's Little Helper wandered over and started sniffing Bob's shoes. He seemed to follow a trail up his leg that ended at his crotch, where he paused to sniff extensively. Bart picked up a stick fallen from the tree and poked Bob's lifeless face with it.

Meanwhile Homer was explaining the day's events to Marge, who finally looked over and saw what was happening. "Shoo! You know you're not allowed to sniff the no-no zone! And Bart, stop poking him! He's already badly injured."

The family gathered closer, looking down at their archenemy. Daylight had left the backyard, making room for the shadow of early evening. The gloomy light did little for the unconscious man's pale complexion or the bruises already darkening on his face. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. There were raw abrasions here and there as well.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" Homer panicked. "He's dead, he's dead, he's dead! What do we do, what do we do, what do we do?"

"Calm down!" Marge ordered. "Let's be rational about this."

Homer grinned. "You're right! Quick, Bart, grab a shovel and a tarp! I'll bring the car around and we'll load the body into the trunk, then -"

"Dad!" Lisa spoke up. "He's not dead!" She felt Bob's wrist for a pulse. "But he does need medical care."

"I'll call for an ambulance," Marge announced. Homer grabbed her by the arm to stop her.

"No, Marge! Don't you see? He got hurt on OUR property, which means he could sue us!"

"But we can't just leave him out here like this!"

"Then let's just load him into the car, take him for a little drive, and find a nice remote spot to abandon him in. Out of sight, out of mind!"

"That's inhumane!" Lisa shouted.

"_You're_ inhumane!" Bart argued childishly.

"I am _not_!" Lisa snapped. "I'm a charter member of both PETA _and_ the ASPCA!"

"Don't get all huffy with me! I'm a PETA member too!"

Lisa blinked. "Since when?"

"Since I joined the awesome society of People Eating Tasty Animals," Bart answered with a smirk.

"Barbarian!" Lisa growled and shoved him. Bart shoved back.

Suddenly there were two fights taking place over Bob's unconscious form, one between spouses and one between siblings.

"Ahem! Hi-diddly-ho there, neighborinos!"

Everyone fell silent and looked over at the house next door. Ned Flanders was standing behind the fence that separated their yards, looking calm despite the commotion.

"Now I hate to be a Prying Penelope, but I couldn't help noticing you've got a corpse-diddly-orpse on your lawn."

"He's _not_ dead!" Lisa repeated, a tad angry this time.

"Yeah, see?" Bart poked Bob's blackened eye with the stick, causing the would-be corpse to moan.

Marge swiped the stick from him. "Bart! Stop that! It was a freak accident, Ned."

Flanders nodded, shoving his glasses up his nose. "I know. I saw the whole thing."

Homer stepped forward menacingly. "Oh you did, did you?"

"Well, yes, but I'm not the only witness. You can't hide anything from the man upstairs."

Homer shot a quick glance at the upper story of his house. Grampa was watching from the guest room window. He shook a fist at him.

"Back to bed, old man!"

Flanders chuckled. "I was talking about the man on the very top floor."

Homer blinked. "The attic?"

"He means God!" Marge whispered, elbowing him in the gut.

"That's right," said their neighbor with a smile, "and it seems to me that the Christian thing to do is to take this poor fella in and nurse him back to health." He nodded to Bob.

An awkward silence settled on the yard as the Simpsons looked down at their fallen foe.

Marge gave a skeptical grunt. "Well, I guess we have no choice..."

* * *

><p>And so we have reached a turning point. A most delicious turning point indeed. XD If you are enjoying this story at all, please be kind enough to review as I am putting a lot of work into this and it will only take a minute of your time. What's one more minute after having read an entire chapter? XP I would really appreciate it, and I reply to all reviews personally.<em><em><br>__


	9. Act IX

_Being Bob_

_Act IX, Scene I_

_"If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" ~ The Merchant of Venice, Act III, Scene I_

The last rays of the setting sun painted the few wispy clouds in an unsettling blood-red hue. As the day's warmth faded with it, a coldness settled over the backyard. The Simpsons stood in a silent circle around the unconscious form of Sideshow Bob. The man who had plagued them for years - lurking in shadows, looming overhead, lying in wait, appearing out of nowhere, stalking, haunting, relentlessly terrorizing - now lay at their mercy on the lawn.

The moments ticked by as the family stared at their nemesis. Lisa fidgeted, looking increasingly worried. Homer scratched his rump.

"You aren't planning to leave him lying there like one of your pooch's naughty piles, are you?" The voice of Ned Flanders startled them all. He was smiling at them from over the fence, making them feel foolish for having forgotten his presence. Having him for a neighbor was like living next door to Jiminy Cricket.

"Of course not," Marge replied. "We're just... trying to figure out where to put him."

"You can put him in Lisa's room," Bart suggested, kneeling beside the unconscious man. "Hey, Sideshow Bob, do you wanna bunk with my sister?" He put a hand on the man's chin and moved the lower lip up and down to simulate talking. "Oh yes, I would love to!" Bart said in a high-pitched voice that nowhere near resembled Bob's. "I'm a pompous nerd just like Lisa, and we both make Bart's life a living hell. We're perfect for each other! Marry me, Lisa!" This was followed by smooching sounds as Bart squeezed Bob's cheeks together to form a kissy face.

Lisa scowled. "Cut it out!" She shoved Bart aside and knelt to inspect Bob's injuries. "He's going to need a cold compress for his eye, and peroxide on those abrasions and lacerations to prevent an infection." She looked back at her parents. "Do we have either of those things, or did Dad swallow them again?"

"Peroxide yes, compress no," Homer replied. Marge glared at him. "What? I wanted to know what's inside a cold compress."

"You don't need to eat something to figure out what it's made of!" Marge scolded. "Don't worry, Lisa, I'll make him an ice pack."

"Great," Lisa replied. "Let's get him inside. NOT in my room," she added, giving Bart a warning look.

Marge hurried into the house to prepare a place for their guest, taking Maggie with her. Homer half-circled Bob before stopping to lift him up by his legs. Bart and Lisa were left to hoist Bob up by the other end. Bart grabbed two fistfuls of curly auburn hair while Lisa supported Bob's neck and upper back to prevent further injury. They entered the house with Homer in the lead, a leg under each arm. Bart and Lisa brought up the rear. While Bart and Homer walked forward, Lisa walked sideways to provide proper neck support for Bob.

"Come on, Bart," she growled. "Quit being lazy. I'm doing all the work here!"

Bart was letting Bob's head dangle by the two locks of hair he was holding. "Fine!" he grumbled, slipping a hand under Bob's head to lift it up.

As they began to climb the stairs, Bart chose that moment to revamp his little ventriloquist act. "Oh, Lisa! I always knew you had the hots for me!" he said in that same high-pitched voice. The hand under Bob's head pulled upward, bringing the unconscious man's face very close to Lisa's. "Kiss me, baby!"

"Ewww! Bart! Knock it off!" she snapped, shoving Bob's face away from hers.

In doing so she lost her grip on him, as did Bart. They both dropped him at once. Homer continued up the stairs, dragging Bob's limp form behind him as if nothing had happened. Bob's poor bruised head thumped against every step.

Minutes later, Bob had been stripped of his work clothes and laid out on the guest bed in his undershirt, boxers and socks. Lisa fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom and helped her mother tend to his numerous wounds. Several Band-Aids and dirty cotton balls later, Bob looked a far sight better, though he was still out cold, and would remain that way for the rest of the night.

...

_Scene II_

Bob awoke bright and early to the cheerful tune of birds singing their happy little heads off outside. The sound was like needles being jabbed into the pincushion of his brain. Every inch of his body either ached or throbbed or tingled or smarted him. He opened bleary eyes, one a bit puffier than the other, and let his surroundings slowly come into focus. His vision swam with a loud pinkish color that reminded him of Peptol Bismol... regurgitated. It surrounded him. Who in their right mind would paint walls this color?

He was indoors. That was the first thing he ascertained. He was indoors, inside a small room, lying on a bed, with the mother of all hangovers.

An odd sound startled him. Looking to his left, he discovered a grizzled old man snoring in an armchair beside the bed. Bob stared at him a moment before clearing his throat loudly. No response. He tried again, louder. Still nothing.

Bob was about to try speaking to him when the old man farted himself awake. He nearly jumped out of the chair, babbling like a lunatic. "AH! D'oh! What the -" He looked around wildly for the source of his disturbance. His eyes landed on Bob and narrowed. "Hey, what are you doing in my bed?" he demanded.

Bob stared back at him. "I don't know," he replied. "What am I doing in your bed?"

"Hogging all the covers, that's what! Move over!" Abe stood and stepped toward the bed.

Bob didn't move. "Er, it's a rather narrow bed, and only one pillow. Is it customary, or even feasible, for us to share it?"

Abe scowled. "What are you, a blanket hog AND a pillow Nazi? I said move over, Curly Joe!"

Bob still didn't move. "Curly Joe... is that my name?"

"You could be Rudolph 'The Redhead Reindeer' Valentino for all I care! Now scootch over so I can lie down and die with dignity."

The bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, swung wide open suddenly. Marge entered just in time to see Abe attempting to push Bob out of the bed. She grabbed the old man by the elbow and pulled him back.

"Grampa, no! He's our guest!" she scolded loudly, then lowered her voice to add "Our injured-on-our-property-and-we-don't-want-him-to-sue-us-or-kill-us guest!"

Abe yanked his arm out of her grip. "Fine! Turn an old man out of his bed... I'll just go downstairs and find someplace else to die!" Grumbling under his breath, he shuffled out of the room.

Marge rolled her eyes. A moment later she called out "Not in the kitchen! I prepare meals in that room!" She ignored Abe's incoherent rant in reply and turned to Bob.

"Sorry about that. We sent him to live in a home, and they sent him back to live with us. This is usually HIS room, you see."

Bob nodded politely, but said nothing. Marge fidgeted, nervous.

"Umm, how are you feeling?" she asked. "Can I get you anything?"

Bob thought for a moment. "A glass of water, please." He winced at a dull stab of pain around his blackened eye. "And aspirin, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Not at all," Marge replied, forcing a smile. "Anything else?"

Bob seemed shy all of a sudden. "Well... I am a tad peckish," he admitted, smiling back with a blush.

Marge nodded. "If you promise not to kill anyone, I'll warm up some soup for you. What kind would you like?"

Bob thought hard, but came up empty. "I don't know. What kind WOULD I like? And why would I want to kill anyone? Has someone wronged me?"

Marge raised a brow. He was acting rather odd. Could it be another one of his tricks?

"Well..." Before Marge could answer, Bart appeared in the doorway.

"Ahhh, Sideshow Bob," he said sarcastically. "Okay, now that that's out of the way - hey Mom, where's my lunch? The bus will be here any minute."

Bob just stared at the spiky-haired boy, unaffected by his words. "Er, excuse me, but what is a 'sideshow bob'?"

Both Marge and Bart turned to look at him. Their expressions of surprise were identical. Then Bart smirked.

"A sideshow bob is a washed up, talentless buffoon who frames people for armed robbery and tries to kill kids, but never succeeds at anything he does, except sucking, which is what he does best. Sucking and losing."

"Bart!" Marge snapped. "Be nice! Just for that, you can go make your own lunch! Now scoot!" She shooed him away and shut the door, leaving herself alone in the room with Bob.

"What he means is... well... it's not important. Or personal. But I must ask you to refrain from killing him. At least until you've recovered. Are you all right, Bob?"

He was making a terrible face as pain stabbed him in two places at once. When he looked up at her again, his good eye was wide and his expression as innocent as a small child's.

"Who is Bob?"


	10. Act X

_Being Bob_

_Act X, Scene I _

_This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. ~ Hamlet, Act I, Scene III_

Marge stood in silence, staring in awe at the homicidal maniac who had terrorized her family for years, now rendered as helpless and naïve as a small child.

He stared back, clearly confused. "Who is Bob?" he said, slowly raising a hand to his face. Gingerly he touched the swollen, discolored area below his blackened eye, wincing a little. The elegant contours of his high cheekbones made the bruise stand out even more. His long, slender fingers traced the curves of cheek and nose and jawline, trying to relearn the features of a face no longer familiar.

"And… who am I?"

Marge gave a worried grunt, wringing her hands together nervously. "Bob is… is you. You're Bob," she answered hesitantly.

Was this a trick? If so, what did he hope to gain by it? If not… She almost wished it _was_ a trick. The thought of dealing with a Sideshow Bob who'd lost his memory seemed far more unsettling than dealing with a Sideshow Bob who'd lost his mind. The latter she knew how to handle, what to expect. More or less. She and her family had expert-level experience in battling a deranged Bob. But an amnesiac Bob? Hoo, boy.

"Your full name is Robert… something… Terwilliger," Marge explained, unable to remember the Underdunk surname he got from his mother, or any middle names he might have had. "Robert Terwilliger," she repeated, with confidence this time. "But I think most people just call you Bob."

Sitting up in bed with a curious expression, he looked so harmless and trusting that Marge began to let her guard down. Bob hissed in pain and cupped a hand over a bandaged scrape on his brow. Seeing this, the mother in Marge caved in and she sat beside him on the bed, raising a tentative hand to his face.

"May I?"

Bob nodded and lowered his hand, turning his face toward her more so that she could inspect the wound. She brushed a fluffy auburn lock aside and leaned in close. Blood had seeped through the bandage, some quite recently, from the look of it.

"I'll change some of your bandages after lunch," she said, rising. He started to get up too, but she gave him a gentle push back into bed. "No, no, you stay in bed and recuperate. You've been through a lot and you need your rest. I'll bring you your lunch. Just give me ten minutes. If you do need to get up and, er, take care of business, the bathroom's just down the hall on the right."

Marge hurried out of the room, hoping he would stay in bed. At least until Homer returned from work. The thought of Sideshow Bob wandering around her house, mindless or not, was a troubling one. She had been nervous enough to be left all alone with him that morning after Homer left for work and the kids for school.

Well, not ALL alone. Maggie and Grampa were there too, of course, but a baby and a senile old man were about as helpful as a burnt-out light bulb in a broken lamp on a blind man's writing desk – that whined and wet themselves frequently. On top of that, a third helpless person (with a homicidal streak, no less) would be like having a poltergeist haunting the blind man's house.

...

_Scene II_

In the kitchen, Marge set about making lunch. Being as unsure as Bob was on what he would like, she decided to fix a variety plate. First a ham sandwich, with lettuce, tomato, cheese, and just a little mayonnaise and mustard. If he wanted more, she could easily add to it, but if he didn't, it would be a lot harder to remove excess condiments. She placed all these ingredients between two slices of bread, one white and one whole grain, hoping he would like at least one of the two.

Fresh pear slices, a glass of orange juice, and a small box of animal crackers joined the sandwich on a tray. The final course, a bowl of chicken noodle soup, had just gone into the microwave when the doorbell rang. Marge wiped her hands on a dish rag and went to answer it.

Selma stood on the doorstep, a cigarette in her mouth and her adopted daughter Ling in one arm. "Hello, Marge. Mind if I come in?"

"Of course!" Marge replied, with more enthusiasm than was usually reserved for a visit from her sisters. Her relief at Selma's arrival confirmed just how unnerving Bob's presence was in her house.

As Selma stepped into the house, Ling looked around eagerly for her favorite cousin and playmate.

"I'm afraid Maggie's taking a nap right now," Marge explained to both her sister and her little niece as they settled at the kitchen table. She went back to making lunch for Bob while Selma griped and gossiped about the latest goings-on at the local DMV where she worked.

While the soup was still heating, Marge added a few more things to the food tray, including a single-serving yogurt cup, a small bag of chips, and celery sticks with peanut butter.

"Homer off his diet again?" Selma asked with a smirk.

"Yes," Marge replied hesitantly, "but that's not who all this food is for. It's for Sideshow Bob. He's –"

"Sideshow Bob?" Selma repeated, bolting up out of her chair.

Marge mistook this reaction for fear, remembering how Bob had nearly succeeded in killing Selma on their honeymoon. She promptly explained the situation in order to put Selma's mind at ease. It certainly worked, but to what extent, Marge could hardly imagine. The wicked grin on her sister's face should have tipped her off, but the microwave chose that precise moment to ding, calling Marge's attention back to preparing Bob's lunch.

She set the steaming soup bowl on the tray and carried it through the living room toward the stairs, past Grampa snoring ferociously in a recliner. Marge climbed the stairs slowly, careful not to spill anything. Selma followed with Ling in tow. As if psychically attuned to her cousin's nearing presence, Maggie woke up and started crying.

Marge groaned. "Check on her for me, will you?" she asked Selma before heading toward the guest room at the opposite end of the hall.

Bob was in bed, flat on his back, lying perfectly still, eyes closed. Marge stared. The pallor of his skin in the warm sunlight streaming through the window made his bruises look darker by contrast. Was he always that pale? She stepped closer, and for the first time ever she began to notice little things about the man that had terrorized her family for the past few years.

The high cheekbones, the circles under the eyes… even a light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose that lent credence to his being a natural redhead. She'd always assumed he wore a wig. After all, who on earth would have such bizarre hair? She shook her head, causing her own blue beehive 'do to sway back and forth.

As if sensing her presence, Bob slowly opened his eyes, one still puffy and black, and turned his head to look at her with a serene expression. If you had asked Marge what color Sideshow Bob's eyes were before now, she could never have given you a confident answer. From a distance, they looked brown, sometimes hazel. Up close, devoid of their usual malice, they were a deep but dazzling olive green. Like jade with a touch of amber. They were really quite beautiful. Marge couldn't help thinking that he was actually a rather handsome man – when he didn't have that stabby look.

She cleared her throat. "Here's your lunch. I didn't know what you'd like, so…" she set the tray down across his lap after he sat up. Bob stared at the small feast, speechless.

She watched as he picked up a celery stick and nibbled it experimentally. He made a face and Marge stiffened. _Oh God, he's not allergic to peanut butter, is he?_ He tried it again, and although it was apparent by his expression that he didn't like it, he proceeded to eat it anyway, casting his hostess an approval-seeking look.

"You don't have to eat it if you don't like it," Marge assured him.

Bob promptly set down what was left of the celery stick and swallowed with a grimace. "I apologize, but I don't particularly care for these crunchy green things."

"It's called celery, and don't apologize. Just eat whatever you like, and what you don't like, I'll give Home – my husband – for dinner."

Bob nodded. "Thank you," he said with a smile. It was amazing how charming his smile could be when it wasn't connected with something sinister.

Marge nodded back, her own smile a tad nervous. "You're welcome." She turned toward the door. "If you need anything, just give a holler."

She went to Maggie's room next, where she found Selma watching Ling and Maggie play on the floor. "I have to go downstairs," Marge said. "Can you watch the kids while I clean up the kitchen?"

"Sure," Selma replied, pulling a cigarette and lighter from her purse. Before Marge could protest, her sister opened the window and leaned against the sill as she lit up. The ceiling fan drove the smoke from the room. Marge smirked, but let it go. Selma may never win Mother of the Year, or even qualify as a contestant, but at least she had enough maternal sense to smoke away from babies. Sort of.

"Oh! One more thing. Bob's in the guest room recuperating. If he calls, could you take care of him for me? He won't try to kill you or anything," Marge promised. "In fact, I'd be surprised if he even remembers you, what with the amnesia and all."

"No problem," Selma purred, with a grin more sinister than Sideshow Bob could ever manage. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, exhaling a cloudy puff that framed her smile in an ominous haze. "I'll take good care of him."

...

_Scene III_

It had been over half an hour since Marge had descended the stairs, leaving Selma to watch the babies and Bob to eat his lunch in peace. She'd only meant to wipe the counters and wash a few dishes. Maybe pull something out of the freezer to thaw out for dinner. But sometimes one chore leads to another, as it often did in her case. Not having to worry about Maggie took a load off her shoulders, allowing her to heap on a whole new load, composed entirely of housework.

Marge paused in re-grouting the downstairs bathroom floor when she suddenly realized how quiet it was. Too quiet, in her opinion. She peeked into the living room, where her father-in-law lay limp in the recliner. He'd stopped snoring, so she watched him for a moment until the subtle rise and fall of his chest confirmed he was still breathing.

Relieved, she allowed herself to breathe again, and looked toward the stairs. No sound from the upper floor either. Had the babies fallen asleep? Maggie had already had her nap, so that was unlikely. And what of Selma and Bob? She climbed the stairs, curiosity getting the best of her.

Marge checked Maggie's room first. The two little girls were playing quietly with dolls in Maggie's playpen. Selma was gone. Worried, she headed down the hall toward the guest room, but just as she got there, the doorknob turned and Selma stepped out of the room with a bowl of sudsy water, a sponge, and a look of pure smugness.

Marge took a step back, staring at the items in her hands. "What…" it took her a moment to put two and two together, and when she did, her face went livid from a confused mixture of outrage and embarrassment.

"You gave him a sponge bath?!"

"You said to take care of him."

"Yes, but I didn't mean… that isn't what I… you know that's not…" Marge stammered, scandalized. "Did I _ask_ you to give him a sponge bath?"

"You didn't need to," Selma answered coolly.

"He's not helpless, you know!"

Selma grinned again. "I know."

Marge growled. "I think you've done enough," she said, dismissing her.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it, sister. All I can say is, I'm gonna need a cigarette now." Selma gave her a wink and walked away.

Very hesitantly, Marge opened the guest room door. Bob was lying in bed, eyes on the ceiling, his face a perfect portrait of the thousand-yard stare. It didn't take a genius to figure out what disturbed him so.

"I'm awfully sorry about that," Marge said, looking down at him worriedly. "My sister means well… in her own way."

Bob said nothing, just continued to stare at the ceiling. Marge fidgeted.

"Ummm… maybe you'd like to take a real bath? Or a shower?" she suggested. "On your own?"

That got his attention. His gaze shifted to hers and he nodded.

While Bob showered, Marge tried unsuccessfully to scold a shameless Selma for taking advantage of him.

"For God's sake, Marge, he's my ex-husband. We were married for two whole days, and we spent most of that time in bed. He may have been blind stinking drunk during our honeymoon, but at least he consented! Most of the time." Naturally it didn't occur to Selma WHY Bob had drank himself stupid each night.

"And I'm not talking about an innocent little cuddle. Oh, no," she chuckled wickedly. "We rolled around in those sheets like there was no tomorrow!"

Sitting across from her at the kitchen table, Marge's face went pink and she glanced away. "I didn't need to hear that."

Selma took a long, slow drag on her cigarette. It might have looked sensual if someone else was doing it. "If it makes you feel any better, my Bobby's the biggest act at Springfield Stallions. And I do mean the biggest."

Marge went bright red this time. "How is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Selma smirked, exhaling a wisp of smoke. "He obviously likes the attention."

Before Marge could go any redder, Bob's voice called out from upstairs. "Er, Mrs. Simpson? Could you come up here, please?"

Marge got up quickly, thankful for the opportunity to escape such an awkward conversation. She hurried up the stairs, thinking Bob needed her help re-bandaging some of his wounds. The sight she met on the top landing stopped her dead in her tracks.

Bob stood before her, spirals of wet hair dripping black dots on the dark green carpet. He wore nothing but a single towel – draped loosely about his shoulders.

Marge gasped, her face even redder than Selma could have made it. Bob just stood there, with neither a clue nor a care in the world, as though _au naturel _was truly natural. There was certainly no doubt left in her mind that he was a _natural_ redhead. Not after seeing firsthand that the carpet matched the curtains.

"It didn't occur to me until just now that I have no clothes," he said calmly. As if THAT wasn't the understatement of the century!

It took an incredibly long moment for Marge to stop looking him in the crotch, and even longer for her to look him in the eyes again.

"Er, yes, well, I suppose… go on back to the guest room and I'll find you something to wear," she replied, addressing the banister instead of Bob.

Selma came up the stairs just as a very red Marge handed Bob a pile of clothes through the bedroom door without looking at him. She smirked. "I guess you know the answer now."

"Answer to what?" Marge asked, unable to look at her sister either.

"What they say about men with big feet."

Marge hurried into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her hot face. As she reached for a hand towel to dry, she glanced down and saw the empty bottles in the waste basket. Her Estee Lauder shampoo and conditioner for extra volume and sheen – all thirty-two ounces of each – had been completely used up by Bob before she even got a chance to open the bottles.

* * *

><p>I don't like to think about Bob and Selma together any more than you guys do, but for some reason I take a sick pleasure in having her torment him. XD<p> 


	11. Act XI

_Being Bob_

_Act XI, Scene I_

"_The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails." ~ The Winter's Tale, Act II, Scene II_

Selma wouldn't leave, and Marge, ever the acquiescent little sister, couldn't bring herself to ask her to leave. For Bob's sake, Marge never left him alone in the same room with Selma for more than half a minute. The poor man kept glancing at his ex-wife nervously as the three adults watched a soap opera in the living room.

Dressed in an oversized shirt and pair of pants from Homer's wardrobe, Bob resembled the gangly scarecrow of a, to put it nicely, "very prosperous" farmer. He sat on the floor before the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him in pants that were twelve sizes too wide and three sizes too short. Marge sat behind him on the couch, brushing his hair.

On the TV, a gorgeous woman (with obvious work done on her face and chest) confessed to her equally gorgeous mother that she'd accidentally slept with her fiance's twin brother. When the younger woman fretted over the paternity of her unborn baby, her mother smiled wryly and said, "At least one of us knows for sure that Darren is the father," placing a telltale hand upon her own belly. Unhappy with the prospect of having a half-sibling as a stepchild, the younger woman proceeded to light her mother's hair on fire during a feigned make-up hug in which both women were inexplicably and disturbingly half naked.

Bob seemed completely engrossed in the soap opera, hardly even wincing when the hairbrush snagged on a knot.

Selma snorted at the scandalous display on the TV screen. "That Monique is such a slut. Serves her right for seducing a man young enough to be her son, not to mention her future son-in-law. And Vanessa's bra size is higher than her IQ if she can't tell Darren and Damian apart. Darren's birthmark is on his LEFT butt cheek. How could she not notice that?"

The burning woman shrieked hysterically as she ran outside into the backyard. No sooner had she doused her flaming hair in the koi pond than her enraged daughter jumped on her back and held her head under the water in an attempt to drown her.

Sitting on Selma's lap, Ling whimpered at the violent scene.

"Oh, don't worry, sweetie," Selma purred, kissing the top of her head. "That's not gonna happen to us. You'll have Darren, and I'll have his equally handsome twin, Damian. Nothing to fight over then, except maybe their parents' fortune."

Marge gave a worried grunt. "Mmmm, maybe we should change the channel. Soap operas tend to be a bad influence on Maggie."

Off in the corner playing with her toys, the youngest Simpson was making a Malibu Stacy doll bitch slap a Happy Little Elf doll, while Poochy and Scratchy lay in a tangle of limbs nearby. It looked like they were either fighting or fornicating.

Selma shrugged. "Eh, why not? I need another smoke anyway." She hoisted herself up with some effort and deposited Ling onto Bob's lap. "There ya go. Spend some quality time with Daddy."

Bob practically jumped at the sudden appearance of the little girl on his lap. "What the – I have a daughter?!" He shot a terrified look at Selma, who smirked wickedly in return.

"You will once you sign the adoption papers. Ling needs a father, doesn't she?"

Before Bob could protest or ask any further questions, Selma and Marge had gone into the kitchen, leaving him alone with the little girl.

Ling gazed up at him with large, beautiful Asian eyes, fascinated with the red-haired man.

Bob had no idea what to do with such a young child. Any memory he had of raising Gino was gone, which wasn't much to begin with since Francesca had assumed most of the parental duties. Gino was _her_ son, after all, not his. Never his.

There was a long, awkward moment in which the man and the baby exchanged curious stares, trying to make sense of one another.

Nervous, Bob cleared his throat. "So, er, you're a baby, hm? Doesn't sound terribly exciting, but I'm sure it beats working for the postal service."

He tilted his head to study her. Tufts of his feather-soft hair, recently washed and dried, swayed with the gentle motion. Ling stared up at it, mesmerized. Bob shook his head deliberately, tossing his hair about. Ling giggled and reached for the nearest fluffy lock.

Hearing her cousin laugh, Maggie toddled over from where she'd been playing in the corner, dragging a clown doll along with her. She climbed onto Bob's lap, distracting him just long enough for Ling to grab his hair.

"Well hello there, young laYEOWCH! What the – unhand me at once!" He tried to pry Ling's hands away, but her tiny fingers wound themselves tightly into his curls. The little girl giggled happily as she pulled his hair down closer to her face. Maggie followed suit, dropping the doll and clinging to Bob's hair with both hands. The girls giggled and squealed as Bob struggled.

"I say, this is highly unacceptable! ARGH! You're pulling my hair out by the roots! You are, without a doubt, the most sadistic pair of femme fatales since Monique and Vanessa!" he declared, naming the women from the soap opera. Even when he stood up, both girls were still clinging to his hair, shrieking with glee.

Bob shook his head, swinging them back and forth. Their laughter ended abruptly the instant the momentum caused them to collide with each other. Both Maggie and Ling relinquished their grip on his hair and fell to the floor, crying.

Bob gasped. "No, no, no! Don't cry!" He sat down on the rug and scooped them both onto his lap, rocking them gently in his arms. "Shhhh, shhhhh. It's all right. Look!" He picked up the lanky clown doll Maggie had dropped earlier and held it up between the two babies, his arms still around them both.

"Mister Clown says 'Dry your tears, little ladies. I'm here to cheer you up!'" He made the toy dance and interact with the girls, patting their heads and kissing them with exaggerated smooching sounds. Sobs soon turned into giggles, and before he knew it, both girls were in high spirits again.

...

_Scene II_

The front door opened. Bart and Lisa entered the house laden with backpacks, just home from school. Both froze at the sight of Sideshow Bob sitting on the living room rug, playing with Maggie and Ling. Bart grabbed Lisa's elbow and pulled her into the kitchen before she could say anything.

"OW! Bart! What's gotten into you?" Lisa yanked her arm away.

Bart peeked around the threshold, watching his arch-nemesis suspiciously. "He's up to something, Lees," he muttered. "Look at him, playing with Maggie and Ling like he actually enjoys it…"

"Maybe he actually enjoys it," Lisa suggested, watching over his shoulder.

Bart snorted. "Please. You don't ENJOY playing with those two. You do it because you have a sinister scheme in mind. Right?"

He glanced back at Lisa, who answered by crossing her arms and looking thoroughly unamused.

Bart shrugged and went back to spying. "Listen to their evil laughter. He's obviously corrupting them."

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Did it ever occur to you that MAYBE they're just having fun? Innocent, benign fun?"

"Fun with Sideshow Bob? Please, don't make ME laugh, Lees."

"Well, why not?" She gestured to the three in the living room. "I mean look at them. They're just babies. What else could make them so happy but good, pure, harmless fun?"

Bart smirked. "Maggie laughs every time she hits me in the nards. You call that harmless?"

"I mean Bob's obviously not doing anything harmful, or else they wouldn't be laughing."

"But _Sideshow Bob_? He doesn't play with kids, he kills them!"

"He's never actually killed anyone," Lisa pointed out.

"That we know of!" Bart countered.

"But he's got a kid of his own now, remember? And he seemed like a doting father to me. Just look at him!"

"YOU look," Bart replied, walking away. "I'm gonna grab a snack. I'll need to keep my strength up so I can spy on him properly."

"But I don't –"

"Just do it, okay? He's up to something. I know it."

Lisa shook her head and sighed, but continued to watch Bob and the babies, keeping out of sight just beyond the kitchen threshold. Unlike her brother, she watched out of fascination rather than suspicion.

The laughter in the living room tripled in volume as Lisa looked on. "Uh, Bart, you may wanna come see this."

Bart sauntered over with a freshly-made PB-B-and-J (peanut butter, bologna and jelly) sandwich. "Whu izzit?" he asked through a large mouthful.

Lisa pointed silently at the TV. Bart looked in and nearly choked on his sandwich.

Krusty the Clown, dressed as a matador, was spanking a diaper-clad Sideshow Mel with a tennis racket while the poor man tearfully recited the Pledge of Allegiance to a checkered racing flag. Mr. Teeny the chimp, wearing a bra and a Marilyn Monroe wig, played a trombone horribly in the background.

Bob laughed uproariously at the scene. "Who is this delightful buffoon? He is nothing short of a comic genius!" he declared. Maggie and Ling laughed in agreement.

Bart stared at his enemy in total disbelief. "Shut. Up. That is NOT Sideshow Bob!"

"That's because he's lost his memory," Marge said, entering the kitchen from the backyard. Selma followed.

"You mean he has retrograde amnesia?" Lisa asked.

Marge hesitated. "If that means he doesn't remember who he is... yes."

"Retrograde amnesia is the loss of memories accumulated prior to the causative injury," Lisa explained. "In other words, he doesn't recall anything that happened before he got hurt," she added, looking at Bart.

"Well, DUH!" Bart replied. "That's what amnesia means."

"Not everyone forgets who they are," Lisa argued. "There are several types of amnesia, with varying degrees and categories of memory loss. For example, there's anterograde amnesia, lacunar amnesia, transient global amnesia, prosopamnesia, blackout phenomenon, memory distrust syndrome, dissociative fugue…"

Bart groaned loudly. "Ohhhh, I wish _I_ had amnesia so I could forget you ever opened your big fat mouth!"

Lisa growled at him, then turned to watch Bob and the babies in the living room. "How sad it must be to forget everything with a single blow to the head…"

"And which one was that?" Bart asked. "The rake, the tree, or the bucket? I'll take credit for the bucket." He grinned shamelessly.

"It isn't funny, Bart!" Lisa raised her voice. "That poor man has no memory of who he is! He's essentially lost everything!"

If she only knew just how accurate her words were, she would have pitied him even more.


	12. Act XII

_Being Bob_

_Act XII, Scene I_

_Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving. ~ Othello, Act II, Scene III_

The aroma of mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, peas and spicy smoked sausage greeted Homer upon his return from work that evening. The rest of the family, with the addition of their houseguest, had already taken their seats at the dinner table. Homer ambled into the dining room, loosening his tie.

"Smells delish, honey. I hope you made extra, because I – AAAH! SIDESHOW BOB! Oh, right."

Sitting at the far end of the table, Bob stared at him curiously. Homer took the seat at the opposite end just as Marge entered from the kitchen with a platter of sausages. All looked perfectly delectable except for one: a runty brownish-green vegetarian sausage for Lisa.

"Ew! Mom, the meat sausages are touching my soy sausage!" Lisa complained. "It's contaminated!"

"And the nerd sausage is contaminating the good stuff!" Bart mocked her.

Marge rolled her eyes. "It's all good. Eat it or starve." She set the platter down in the center of the table, between the bowl of peas and the gravy boat. "Everyone dig in!"

The words were barely out of her mouth when Homer stabbed his fork into the plumpest, juiciest sausage on the platter.

"Wow, wouldja look at this bad boy!" he exclaimed, waving it about shamelessly. Unimpressed, the others helped themselves to the rest of the sausages. "Heh-heh, hey Marge, who's got the biggest sausage at this table? Hm?"

Marge cast a sideways glance at their guest as he helped himself to the last sausage. Without the others stacked on top of it, one could easily see that Homer had spoken too soon: the bragging rights for biggest sausage went to Bob. Marge blushed and Homer's jaw dropped.

"It doesn't matter who's got the biggest anything," Marge assured Homer before he could complain. "Just make the best of what you've got."

Oblivious to their stares, Bob proceeded to cut the massive slab of meat into bite-sized pieces. He ate silently, eyes on his plate.

"So how's the English patient today?" Homer asked.

Bob looked up, glancing around the table. All eyes were on him. He placed an index finger on his chest. "Me?"

"You're the only fancy-talking guy in bandages I see around here."

"Hmm." Bob looked at Marge. "Am I from England?"

Marge hesitated. "I want to say yes, but I'm not sure. You could be Welsh."

"Definitely European," Homer said through a mouthful of sausage.

"England and Wales are part of the United Kingdom, which is distinctly separate from Europe," Lisa pointed out.

"Tomayto, tomahto," Bart chimed in. "Who cares?"

"Obviously YOU don't, but it could make all the difference in helping Bob regain his identity."

Bart, who was sitting adjacent to Bob, leaned away from him and closer to Lisa, dropping his voice to a hiss. "If he remembers who he is, he'll remember who WE are, and he'll remember what happened in Italy!"

Lisa started to argue but stopped. Suddenly she gasped and her eyes lit up. "What happened in Italy… that's it! If we can track down Bob's family, they can help him get his memory back! They must be worried sick about him by now. Dad, you've been working with Bob. Has he said anything about his wife and son, or where they're living now?"

Homer gulped down a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "I don't think so. He only opens his mouth at work to criticize me or sing one of those God-awful operas. He never has anything funny or interesting to say, so I usually don't pay attention."

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Of course. What was I thinking?" She looked at Bob, who had remained silent throughout the discussion. By the curious look he gave her, it was obvious he'd been hanging onto every word. She felt sorry for him.

"Don't worry, Bob, we'll help you get your memory back. Somehow."

He continued to stare at her curiously. "You mentioned a wife and son?" It was much a statement as it was a question.

Lisa nodded. "Yes. The last time we saw you – about a month ago – you were living in Italy. In fact, you were the mayor of a small village, and you had a wife and a little boy who looks just like you."

"But then… how did I end up here? And where is my family?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Lisa replied. "The first thing to do is figure out where you've been staying since you returned to Springfield. Can you remember anything at all?"

A distant look clouded Bob's eyes as he slowly lowered them to his plate of barely touched food. Even his buoyant hair seemed to go limp as he shook his head sadly. Lisa felt a pang of guilt. She would have reached out and patted his hand if not for the fact that Bart was sitting between them.

"Well…" Lisa trailed off, then gasped. "Mom! What did you do with the clothes he was wearing last night?"

"I washed them. They're in the dryer right now."

"Did you check his pockets? Maybe he has a wallet!"

Sudden understanding caused Marge to smile. "I did, and he does. I put it on the nightstand in the guest room."

Without waiting to be excused, Lisa bolted from her chair and dashed upstairs. Less than half a minute later she returned to the table, holding up a small leather men's wallet. She sat down and pushed her plate aside, clearing a space on which to empty out the contents of the wallet: thirty-seven dollars (mostly one-dollar bills and a couple of fives – all tips from the strip club), a credit card, an outdated driver's license, a travel visa, membership cards for Barnes & Noble and 24 Hour Fitness, an organ donor card, a couple of unvalidated parking tickets, an expired condom, two individually packaged moist towelettes, a Grey Poupon mustard packet, and a key card.

Lisa picked up the key card and flipped it over. Sure enough, there was the logo for the Sleep-Eazy Motel. After a quick phone call to confirm that Bob had not yet checked out, it was decided that Homer and Lisa would go to the motel after dinner to retrieve Bob's belongings. Although he wanted to go too, Marge insisted that Bob stay home and rest, as he was still a bit woozy from his head injuries.

...

_Scene II_

The sun was setting goldenly over Springfield as Homer parked his car in front of the decrepit motel. Lisa quickly climbed the rickety staircase to the upper floor, followed slowly by Homer, whose weight roused agonized groans from each and every step.

Lisa walked along the balcony checking the numbers on the doors, looking for 19. "Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen… sixteen? What the - ?" She paused before the wrongly numbered door, confused. The door to the left was clearly room 18, and the one on the right was 20. Had 19 been deliberately omitted? She'd noticed that this motel, like many, had no room 13. Was superstition to blame for 19's unsettling absence as well?

She laughed out loud when it hit her. The tarnished brass 6 was actually the number 9 turned upside-down. On closer inspection, she could make out the tiny hole where a screw once held the 9 right-side up.

Homer caught up to her as she swiped the key card through the slot and opened the door. It was dark inside with the curtains drawn, but the onslaught of smells that wafted out painted a vivid picture of the room before Lisa could even locate the light switch: dirty socks, spoiled food and alcohol.

If the motel had a single maid in its employment, this room failed to testify to her existence. The bed was unmade, the sheets and covers twisted by a restless occupant. Some soiled clothes were piled in a corner, used towels covered the bathroom floor, and an open takeout box from a nearby Mexican restaurant sat on the little table, its contents beginning to reek with age.

Two nearly empty bottles, one bourbon, one vodka, stood on the nightstand. Beside these were various medications, both over-the-counter and prescription, including Alka-Seltzer, Benadryl, Vicodin, lithium and nitroglycerin. Lisa dumped all of the medications into an empty plastic grocery bag she found on the floor, then proceeded to collect the toiletries scattered around the bathroom sink.

"Check all the drawers," she instructed. "We have to make sure we don't leave anything important behind."

Homer paused in the middle of sampling the three-day-old half-eaten fajita and reluctantly began the task of emptying the dresser drawers. When he spotted the alcohol bottles, he immediately reached for the nearest one.

"No, Dad," Lisa muttered with her back to him. "Leave it."

Homer groaned. "Why? It's not like this is a crime scene… is it?"

Lisa shrugged as she knelt beside the bed. "With Sideshow Bob, we can't be too careful." She lifted the bed skirt and peered underneath, making sure she hadn't missed anything down there.

Meanwhile Homer took to rifling through an underwear drawer. A few pairs of extra-extra-extra large socks, some boxer shorts… nothing of interest until he reached into the back of the drawer and fished out a maroon-colored thong.

"Ooh!" Naturally such a provocative article of clothing warranted closer inspection, even though Homer had no idea where the skimpy piece of cloth had been prior to his eager hands.

"Aha!" Lisa exclaimed as she pulled a briefcase out from under the bed and set it atop the mattress. "Let's see what he's hiding in here."

Inside were a few books; worn copies of _David Copperfield, __Pride and Prejudice, Les Misérables, Shakespeare's Sonnets_, and _The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe._ Also inside the briefcase were various documents, such as a copy of Bob's birth certificate, a résumé, a printout of his criminal record, and a 1040 income tax return form.

Lisa went through everything, even flipping through each of the books in hopes of finding something useful. Something to either jog Bob's memory or reunite him with his family. But there was nothing. Nothing about Italy, nothing about being a mayor, nothing about a wife or son. Except for two small things that were found at the bottom of the pocket on the inside of the briefcase lid: a folded piece of paper and a photo.

The photo was of a small boy with short, black, slightly wavy hair. He looked nothing like Bob's son. Or did he? Lisa squinted her eyes and peered closer. Her thumb, gripping the edge of the photo, moved up to cover the top of the boy's head. Without his hair visible, she thought she could see a strong resemblance to Gino. Lisa shook her head and set the photo aside. It had to be some other little boy.

She unfolded the sheet of paper next and found herself staring at a child's drawing. It was a portrait of a gray and yellow figure, rendered in crayon. The figure was holding what appeared to be a wine glass up in the air, and all around its exaggeratedly large feet were purple dots and circles, apparently representing grapes. The explosive use of the color red on top of the figure's head made its identity obvious. In the top left corner, it was signed TO BOB FROM GINO.

Lisa frowned. Why on earth would a boy call his father by his name? Well, aside from boys like Bart, of course. During her brief time in Italy, she'd never heard Gino call Bob anything other than Papa. She looked at the drawing again, focusing on the signature. There was no doubt in her mind that whoever had drawn it had signed it as well. But how could a child his age even know how to write? She picked up the photo, staring at it even harder. It DID look like Gino, minus the hair, but something else wasn't right – something Lisa couldn't put her finger on.

She tried to recall Bob's son in greater detail, but it was difficult since she'd never really interacted with him. Maggie had, though. She remembered the two of them dancing in the village square, how all the adults went "Awww!" over them. For a boy who was several months younger than Maggie, he was oddly taller than her. His coordination was better too, which he proved with his admirable dance skills and relentless pursuit of revenge. And although Maggie wasn't much of a talker, Gino's bilingual vocabulary was certainly impressive for his age. Too impressive.

Lisa gasped. Suddenly everything made sense.


	13. Act XIII

_Being Bob_

_Act XIII, Scene I_

_The worth of that is that which it contains,_  
><em>And that is this, and this with thee remains. ~ Sonnet LXXIV<em>

Lisa entered the house, followed by Homer, who was carrying Bob's suitcases. Upstairs, she paused outside her brother's room, finding it oddly quiet. When she opened the door to the guest room, she found Bob sitting on the edge of the bed with Bart standing behind him on the mattress. Flowers, bows and even Marge's curlers adorned Bob's hair, which had been restyled like some hedge trimmer's mockery of a crumpled origami swan.

Lisa growled and planted her hands on her hips. "Bart!"

With a wicked chuckle, Bart jumped off the bed and bolted out the door. Homer, having finally conquered the staircase, entered the room.

"What's all the…" he paused to stare at Bob, then dropped the suitcases as he burst out laughing.

Bob stared back at him, clueless as ever since his accident.

"Marge!" Homer gasped between guffaws, "Quick! Get the camera!" He left the room, but his laughter was still heard loudly from down the hall.

Lisa rolled her eyes, climbing up on the bed to take Bart's place behind Bob. She tucked the drawing and the photo of Gino into her dress before working to undo her brother's 'masterpiece.'

"The boy – er, Brat, I think his name was – offered to put my hair up so it isn't in the way all the time," Bob muttered, feeling awkward now.

"It's Bart," Lisa replied, struggling with a knotted bow, "but 'brat' is a very fitting anagram." She started on a curler next, unrolling it carefully so as not to yank Bob's hair.

"So – ow! – what did you find at the motel?"

"Sorry! We found your clothes, some books, and a few other things. We packed everything in the suitcases and bags over there," Lisa replied, indicating the luggage Homer had left by the door.

"And… my family?" Bob asked cautiously. His voice was meek, fearful yet full of hope.

Lisa paused, the curler slipping from her fingers. She opened her mouth, taking a breath as if to speak, but nothing came out. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the paper crinkle under her dress. The photo and the drawing would remain hidden, for there was no way she could bring herself to tell Bob what she had learned.

He had lost his lofty position in Salsiccia, and the respect of its citizens, because of her. And he had lost his memory because of her family. The man had seemingly lost everything, and Lisa did not have the heart to tell him he had lost his wife and son on top of it all.

"I… I'm sorry, but I couldn't find anything," she said at last. "Not a single clue." The lie tasted bitter, like bile, the truth behind it even worse.

Though Bob said nothing, his disappointment was a palpable presence in the room. Lisa empathized with him. She continued fixing his hair in silence, wishing she had never mentioned his family in the first place. She had gotten his hopes up for nothing, and now his mood was lower than ever.

Homer appeared in the doorway, a camera in front of his face. "Hey, Bob! Smile!"

Bob lifted his gaze from his lap to peer up at Homer through his auburn bangs. His long face was longer than usual as he made no attempt to humor the man's request. The camera flashed, momentarily blinding him.

"Dad!" Lisa shouted.

With a high-pitched giggle, Homer was gone.

_..._

_Scene II_

"I don't get it. Are you saying Bob KNEW Gino wasn't his son?" Marge looked at Lisa skeptically.

Across the table, the girl nodded vigorously. "Exactly! Bob met Francesca AFTER he moved to Italy! That was AFTER he was released from prison, which was only a month and a half BEFORE Maggie was born! There's no way he could be Gino's father."

"Mmmmm, maybe he adopted him?"

Lisa shrugged. "Maybe, but that doesn't explain why he tried to pass him off as his biological son." She pushed a photo across the table.

Marge picked it up. "Who is this?"

"It's Gino. I'm ninety-nine percent certain it's him."

Marge's eyes alternately narrowed and widened as she stared at the little raven-haired boy in the photo.

"And look at this." Lisa unfolded a piece of paper and laid it out on the table: the crayon drawing.

"See, _'to Bob.'_ What little boy calls his father by his name?" Lisa queried with a smirk. "Seems a tad disrespectful, don't you think?"

Marge smirked back. "You forget whose mother you're talking to."

As if on cue, Bart came tiptoeing into the kitchen, wearing a thick scarf of toilet paper around his neck and two baby carrots taped to his eyebrows. He crawled into the cabinet under the kitchen sink and closed the door, chuckling evilly. A moment later, Homer's anguished cry could be heard from the living room.

"What the –?! Who would do this to turkey jerky? So young and deliciously innocent," he sobbed. "You will be avenged!"

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Right. What was I thinking? But still, you can't deny the rest of the evidence, not when it all adds up to the same conclusion, and that is that Gino is _not_ Bob's biological son."

The cabinet door creaked open and Bart poked his head out. He removed one of his carrot eyebrows and gave it a charismatic nibble. "Ehhh, what's up, Doc?"

"Your sister figured out that Gino isn't Bob's real son," Marge replied.

"Nice nerd work, Sherlock." He nodded to Lisa and closed the cabinet door. A second later it swung back open. "Hold on, are you saying that Bob's hot wife got knocked up by some other dude, and Bob doesn't even know? Ha ha, what a loser."

Lisa frowned. "No! I mean yes, she did, and Bob DOES know, but this happened BEFORE they got married. So he knows, only he DOESN'T know ever since he lost his memory."

Bart stared at her, slack-jawed and confused. Lisa sighed. "Bob knew the truth before he lost his memory," she repeated slowly for his benefit. "Now he has no idea."

"You haven't told him yet?"

Lisa shook her head. "I don't intend to tell him."

"Well if you won't, then I will!" Bart declared as he climbed out of the cabinet.

Marge stood up. "You'll do no such thing! That poor man has suffered enough at the hands of this family!"

Bart's jaw dropped. "But Mom! Have you forgotten that he's spent the last few years trying to KILL me? And all I did was prove that he framed Krusty for armed robbery!"

"Yeah, nice nerd work, Sherlock," Lisa mocked him. Bart stuck his tongue out at her.

"People change, Bart," Marge explained calmly. "He hasn't tried to kill anyone since he moved back to town. You've got to give him credit for that. And it would be wrong to take advantage of him in his current state. Without his memory, he's not the same man who chased us out of Italy with a butcher knife. You can't punish him for something he doesn't even know he's guilty of."

Bart crossed his arms and snorted. "That didn't stop you from grounding me after Maggie glued her mouth shut!"

"That's because you left the glue out KNOWING she likes to play with it!"

"Yeah, but I didn't think she'd dip her pacifier in it!"

Marge growled and rolled her eyes. "Just be nice to him, okay?"

Bart pulled off his other 'eyebrow' and stuffed it into his mouth. "Can I at least tell him he works for me part-time as a ninja assassin drag queen?"

"No! He's very vulnerable right now, so no messing with his head!"

"Or his hair," Lisa added.

Bart was about to argue when Homer entered the kitchen, looking antsy. "Hey honey, there's no toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom and I…" he paused when he spotted Bart's unusual 'scarf,' "...gotta go!" Homer grabbed the toilet paper and ran. Bart made a strangled cry for help as he was yanked along with him toward the bathroom.

Marge sighed and sat down, turning to Lisa again. "So, what DID you tell Bob?" she asked.

"I said I didn't find anything at the motel, but I would keep looking." Her gaze dropped to the pictures on the gingham-covered tabletop. She sighed sadly. "I hate having to lie to him, but… do you really think I did the right thing?"

Marge grunted in thought, twisting a napkin in her hands. "Well, I don't approve of lying, but I also don't approve of burdening a person with more bad news than he can handle, especially when it won't help him in his current situation. So I guess it's okay. For now." She pushed her chair back and stood up. "But if Bob doesn't regain his memory soon, I think we should try to locate Frances and Guido."

"Francesca and Gino," Lisa corrected.

Marge blushed. "Right, because I think they could help jog his memory."

Lisa scooped up the pictures and stood up too. "While we're at it, we could also try to locate the rest of his family." She went over to the whiteboard mounted on the wall and erased the old grocery list and household chores that needed to be done, then uncapped a fat felt-tip marker.

"Let's see… there's his brother, who tried to blow up the dam…" she wrote his name in large green letters. "And his parents, who attended his trial after he framed Krusty…" The marker squeaked zealously against the board.

"Now, we know Bob's parents live in England, but his brother might still be in the U.S.. His mother is a famous actress, so it will likely be very difficult, if not impossible, to contact her directly. His father is a doctor, and assuming he hasn't retired yet, we may be able to contact him through his practice. And as for his brother… well, I highly doubt there's more than one person with the name Cecil Terwilliger in this country. Or the world, for that matter. Let's just hope he's listed somewhere."

"What about Bob's wife?" Marge suggested.

"Right." Lisa added Francesca to the list, hesitating on the last name. "I doubt she goes by Terwilliger since she was already a well-known model before she married Bob. In fact, she may have a pseudonym. I'll try to look for her in European fashion on the Internet."

Marge and Lisa both studied the list of names on the board:

**_CECIL TERWILLIGER – BROTHER_**

**_DR. ROBERT TERWILLIGER, SR. – FATHER_**

**_DAME JUDITH TERWILLIGER (_**née**_ UNDERDUNK) – MOTHER_**

**_FRANCESCA TERWILLIGER – WIFE_**

Bart re-entered the kitchen, TP-free, and stared at the board. "What's this? You and Bob making a guest list for your wedding?" he teased.

Lisa frowned. "I'm making a list of his known relatives so we can contact them in the hope that they can help him get his memory back."

Bart snorted. "Yeah, right. Why do you care so much, anyway? I mean, if you're NOT in love with the guy…"

"Why don't YOU care?" Lisa countered. "It's called compassion, Bart. Maybe if you had some, people like Bob wouldn't be trying to kill you all the time."

"Hey, I can't help it if I'm too real to deal with!" Bart said haughtily.

Lisa rolled her eyes.


	14. Act XIV

_Being Bob_

_Act XIV, Scene I_

_When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry. ~ William Shakespeare_

I had come a long way from playing the mute sidekick to television's biggest buffoon. A laughingstock and a felon, I rose from the nadir of society to the zenith, claiming the lofty role of mayor of a quaint but idyllic Tuscan village. It was a role I knew I had been born to play.

Donning my mayoral costume and starched smile, I made the audience believe that my costars were my beloved wife and son, even though the former was constantly stepping on my lines and the latter had yet to learn how to act his way out of a paper bag. Still, the masses were more than content with our performance, and they made it known through their affectuous adulation.

But of course, I should have known it would turn out to be yet another role I was never meant to play. Perhaps it was Divine Providence, or perhaps it was merely karma, that sent me traipsing through life in shoes that were either too small or, ironically, too large.

The eve of my downfall unfurled like any other day: without fanfare, without breathless anticipation, without further adieu…

I was at my desk contemplating a passage in _Paradise Lost_ when the door to my office opened. I frowned but didn't look up from my book. Francesca never knocked. And she never stayed. My office was my sanctuary, that much she respected. It was a large house, one in which she spent little of her time, my office least of all. Still, she never entered unless she had something to say. Or to ask of me. Never did she linger.

"Roberto, I need-a you to watch Gino while I am out."

I huffed an irritated sigh, but still did not look up from my book. "Where are you going this time? And how long will you be gone?"

We had been cohabiting long enough that I no longer bothered to quell the annoyance in my tone. Being an unpaid babysitter had not been in the job description when I'd first agreed to pose as husband and father. Hiring a nanny had been out of the question, as it would appear highly suspicious. After all, what stay-at-home parents needed such help to care for a single toddler? Being mayor of a small village was rarely demanding, nor was Francesca's modeling career. When she _was_ called off to distant places for an extended photo shoot or fashion show, she always took Gino with her.

"I am-a having my nails done. I will be back-a by four."

I glanced at the clock. It was barely 2:30.

"You can't honestly tell me that it takes you an hour and a half to get those talons of yours sharpened!" It was as much a question as an exclamation.

Francesca scowled, planting her hands on her hips. "What I do with-a my time is-a not your business!"

I raised a brow. "And yet you see fit to tell me how to govern mine?"

"I am-a asking you nicely to watch-a Gino for me," she replied in a tone that was anything but nice. "You know I cannot take-a him to the salon with me. He is too much-a trouble."

I smirked. "Funny, he's hardly any trouble at all when he's with me. I wonder why that is?"

"That is why I let YOU take him!" Francesca snapped. I had an urge to correct her on the word 'let,' but I didn't. In her mind, she was allowing me the honor of babysitting, not thrusting it on me without regards to what I wanted.

"All right," I sighed, closing my book. "Bring him in." Anything to keep the peace around here.

Francesca left, returning a minute later with Gino. "You stay here and-a behave, or Roberto will spank you."

I snorted at that, loud enough for her to hear, but said nothing. I had never once laid a hand on the boy, nor did I ever intend to. Francesca rarely did it herself, though she was fond of threatening him. And yelling. Normally I'm not one to make stereotypical observations, but it did indeed seem that some Italians relished loudness.

Still, for all of her arrogance and venom, her maternal love was apparent as she stooped to give her son a hug and kiss before leaving. Once she was gone, Gino scampered over to the small chest in the corner and started digging through it for something to play with. Once Francesca had felt comfortable enough to "allow" me to babysit, I'd instructed Gino to keep a toy chest in my office for just such an occasion. Better than having to escort him to his room to fetch a different toy every few minutes.

When Gino found what he was looking for, he closed the chest and sprawled out in the middle of the spacious carpet, facing my desk. I picked up _Paradise Lost_ and resumed reading. Minutes ticked by, unusually silent. More often than not I had to ask the boy to lower the volume on whatever it was he was playing. I peeked over the top of my book, curious. Gino was lying on his stomach on the floor, coloring with crayons in a pad of blank paper. I could scarcely make out what he was drawing from where I sat, though I admired his focus and the feverish intent with which he worked. Like a diminutive da Vinci.

He glanced up at me suddenly and I smiled, encouraging. He smiled back, for a very long moment, before returning to his drawing. A moment later he looked up again, this time staring at my suit rather than my face. I touched my tie, about to ask if it was crooked or if there was a stain, when he started scribbling again. That's when I realized he was drawing me!

I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised. Like most young children, he was fascinated with my appearance, and had drawn numerous pictures of me – specifically, my hair – in the past, but it was always speedy work which I seldom caught him at. Now it appeared as though he was putting a great deal of effort into this particular picture, for he worked in absolute silence for countless minutes while I read. I probably glanced over at him as often as he did at me. Sometimes we caught each other looking. I pretended I had no clue what he was up to.

After a while I couldn't help noticing that he paused frequently to scratch at his head.

"Gino, if that wig is making you itch, why don't you take it off for a while?" I suggested.

Gino shook his head without looking up from his work. "Mm-mm."

"There's nobody here but you and I. No one will see –"

"Mama says no!"

I sighed and gave up. Francesca was incredibly strict about making him wear that abominable hairpiece during the day. She only ever allowed him to take it off at bedtime. I'd told her it was unhealthy for him to wear it so much, that it would eventually ruin his actual hair. And I don't know how many times I'd insisted that Gino needn't resemble me so strongly. Having his mother's natural ebony hair didn't give a single clue to his true paternity, whatever it was. Not to mention he would have been far more likely to look like Francesca than me, had I actually been his father. Red hair and pale skin were recessive traits, easily dominated by raven locks and an olive complexion.

The silence stretched on as Gino continued to draw, and I to read. I didn't even hear him get up from the floor and walk over to me. It was the tug on my sleeve that alerted me to his presence.

"Si, Gino?" I murmured, still reading.

"I make-a this for you, Papa Bob!"

Before I even looked, I was already smiling. He had me at 'Papa Bob.' His mother insisted he call me Papa around other people, while I insisted on Bob the rest of the time. The boy was smart; he knew very well I wasn't his father. Francesca had made sure of that. Probably so that he wouldn't get too attached to me, which was wise. Still, he was very good about calling me what he was supposed to when the situation called for it, but every now and then, usually when his mother was out and we were alone, he liked to call me Papa Bob. I can't say why that tickled me so much, but it did. There was an endearing sincerity to the term, and I liked it.

When I saw the picture he'd drawn, I couldn't help but smile all the larger. Seldom do I meet a connoisseur of fine art more critical than I, but as I stared at the portrait so carefully rendered in crayon by this most amateur of artists, I could find not a single criticism, not even a constructive one.

The subject – quite obviously me – stood amid a mass of purple dots and circles (grapes, I am sure) holding high a wine glass in a victorious toast. TO BOB FROM GINO was written in the top left corner. Aside from a couple of backwards letters, his spelling was excellent for a three-year-old.

I stared at the picture for a long time, awed by its beauty, and surprised by my awe. There was so little that could truly move me since my last prison sentence. But this…

"Gino," I whispered, slowly lowering the paper to look him in the eye, "this is beautiful. _Molto bella!_ _Grazie_."*

The boy grinned proudly and ran off to draw another picture. I smiled fondly at him before placing the picture in a desk drawer for safekeeping. He may not be mine, but it was times like this that made me wish he was. Not my son, not my own flesh and blood, not even my stepson, yet I was more than happy to play the role of his father. Playing his mother's husband, however, was something else entirely.

* * *

><p>*Very beautiful. Thank you.<p> 


	15. Act XV

_Being bob_

_Act XV, Scene I_

_"Fair is foul, and foul is fair." ~ Macbeth, Act I, Scene I_

It was nearly five o'clock by the time Francesca returned from her nail appointment. This hardly surprised me, as I'd grown accustomed to adding an hour to anything that woman does.

Gino had worn himself out battling paper foes with a crayon shiv, and was currently sprawled out on the floor near his toy chest, sound asleep. His drool had soaked through the scattered papers beneath him. Francesca burst into my office without warning and launched into a half-English, half-Italian tirade over something frivolous. I shushed her and pointed to the corner of the room where her son was napping.

Francesca looked incensed, for she absolutely HATED being shushed, but when she saw Gino, her expression went from incensed to motherly, then straight back to incensed in a matter of milliseconds.

"You let-a him take-a his wig off?" she exclaimed before hurrying over to her son. I rolled my eyes as she knelt beside him, picking the wig up off the floor.

"I removed it after he fell asleep," I explained, not bothering to hide my own irritation. "He was sweating! Not to mention the fact that he's constantly scratching his head. That abominable wig is smothering his follicles. Do you want him to be bald by the time he starts school? For God's sake, woman, let him be! He just fell asleep not ten minutes ago!"

Francesca ceased trying to put the wig back on Gino's head and stood up, hackles raised. "Do not tell-a me how to raise-a my son!"

I set my book down and stood up, looking calm. "As his father, I believe I have as much say in his upbringing as you do."

"You are NOT-a his father!" she snapped.

I feigned an overdramatic gasp. "What?! I'm not? Ohhhh Francesca! My darling, beloved wife! How could you do this to me? Did you not vow on our wedding day – the greatest day of my life, mind you – that you would remain faithful to me 'til death do we part? And now you're telling me that my boy – my own flesh and blood, the apple of my eye, my very legacy – belongs to another man? Oh, the humanity!"

Francesca snorted. "You are a terrible actor."

"It's called sarcasm," I replied. "And while we're on the dual subjects of fatherhood and acting, might I remind you that those peasants out there made ME their mayor, not you. I fed them a good cock-and-bull story about marrying you and fathering your son, and they swallowed it whole! They believe me because I've earned their trust, and the only reason they believe Gino is mine is because of that infernal wig. They're all well aware of your reputation. And since you're so fond of reminding me that this entire arrangement is nothing but a sham, why don't we let our loyal citizens in on it, hm? We can make a public announcement this very moment if you wish."

I turned away from her and opened wide the double doors that led onto the balcony. At least a dozen people were already gathered in the town square down below, socializing with their neighbors on this idyllic spring afternoon.

Francesca was at once both pale and livid. "Don't-a you dare!"

Just to spite her further, I stepped out onto the balcony, flashing her the sort of smug grin that I knew irritated her. "Why not? The truth is very liberating, you know. And don't you want to know exactly who, among your many, MANY 'admirers,' gifted you with your son?" I turned away from her to survey the village, enjoying myself immensely. "I can see it now: men flocking in from far and wide to claim the boy, all more than eager to prove to you that theirs was the winning sperm. Yes, it's going to be a very different kind of Cinderella story, but if the, _ahem_, 'shoe' fits…"

"ENOUGH!"

I felt something sharp jab me in the center of my back and nearly jumped off the balcony in surprise. Then I laughed.

"I always knew you'd stab me in the back," I teased. Something metal clattered at my feet and I glanced down to see a foil lying on the floor.

I felt another sharp jab in the back. "Pick it up," Francesca growled. I did as she said, and turned around to face her, raising my foil defensively. Sure enough, she was holding its twin, aimed directly at my heart. I glanced at the wooden plaque on the wall where two crossed foils were normally mounted and noticed they were missing. I smirked. Despite being your stereotypically loud Italian, the woman had a penchant for fighting like a Frenchman. And, I admit, I took great pleasure in indulging her.

Francesca wasted no time attacking me once I was back inside the office. She lunged, I parried, and suddenly the air was filled with the chaotic yet melodic sounds of our blades clashing.

Here I must state that fencing with a woman is not nearly as simple as it sounds. The gentleman in me insisted I go easy on her, but the survivalist in me insisted on protecting my mortal body from certain harm. Francesca fought well, fought zealously, and sometimes she even fought dirty (in more ways than one). After having "accidentally" sliced me numerous times, she finally resorted to attacking me below the belt – literally.

I froze, feeling the tip of her foil against my groin. One wrong move and I could end up a eunuch.

"Touché," I said with a smirk. I was about to lower my weapon and admit defeat when I noticed that the tip of my foil was pointed at her chest. Like me, she was slightly winded, and her bosom heaved from the exertion. Her low-cut blouse made the image before me all the more enticing.

As Francesca had yet to remove her weapon from my nether region, I shamelessly slid my own blade down her blouse, into the luscious valley of her cleavage. My foil was blunted at the tip, allowing me to caress her tender flesh without leaving so much as a scratch. Somehow I always ended up with the blunt foil. Go figure.

The incredibly sharp and potentially lethal tip of Francesca's foil could just barely be felt through my slacks, and despite my fear of being emasculated, I was beginning to get aroused. Francesca gave me a sultry smile, and I wondered whether that smile was due to what I was doing to her, or what she was doing to me. Or both. I returned her smile and stepped closer, rather like a wolf closing in on its prey…

The doorbell chimed. Francesca drew back with a smirk. "My date is-a here," she said, brushing an ebony lock from her forehead. "And you have-a ruined my hair!" She went over to an antique mirror hanging on the wall to fuss over her reflection.

"Who is it this time?" I demanded. "Alanzo? Luca? Stefano? Please. They aren't as well-endowed as I am. You've said so yourself." It may have sounded juvenile, but seeing how she'd deliberately gotten me worked up for nothing, I believe my vexation was justified.

"I am-a going out with Fabio," she said, tucking a wavy tress behind her ear.

"Not THE Fabio?" I queried, knowing full well that she had modeled with him on more than one occasion.

Francesca said nothing, her mirror image answering me with an arrogant smirk. The doorbell rang again. She continued to finger-comb her hair, seemingly in no hurry at all. I rolled my eyes. Women.

"Will you quit fiddling with your hair and answer the door already!" I snapped. "It looks perfectly fine and you know it!"

Francesca spun around, and suddenly I found myself going cross-eyed trying to focus on the foil tip pointed at my nose. "Do not-a talk to me about-a hair!" she growled.

With an upward flick, the foil caught a curl and twisted, yanking several strands out by the roots. Before I could even yelp she had yanked the foil back, tearing free a scarlet lock that was wound around the blade.

I grabbed my throbbing head. "AHHH! SON OF A –!"

"_SSSHHH!"_ She shushed me and pointed at Gino, who was still asleep in the corner. Then, to add insult to injury, she purred, "Fabio's hair is-a far sexier than-a yours." She tossed her weapon (and my torn-out hair) aside and blew me a kiss as she sashayed out of the room.

Again, I'm not a man prone to stereotypical remarks, but with Francesca it was difficult to resist. I declare unashamedly that that woman is at turns both as spicy as an Italian sausage and as cold as an Italian ice. To anyone who may take offense at such bigotry, I think it would be best if you did not hear the sort of things SHE has said concerning MY nationality. One cannot help but wonder why she chose to learn English, being the borderline Anglophobe that she was (unless it was with the sole intent to butcher the language).

I walked out onto the balcony in time to see a pearl white Ferrari 458 Italia Spider cruising off down the street. The top was down, and I instantly recognized Francesca's raven hair billowing in the breeze. I'd know the back of that woman's head anywhere, and not for the reason you may think. Beside her in the driver's seat billowed equally long, lustrous, sandy blond hair. Yes, THE Fabio. Of course.

With a sigh I gathered up the foils and returned them to their proper place, mounted on a large wooden plaque over the mantle. From one of the blades I extracted the hairs Francesca had torn from my head, disposing of them in the wastepaper basket under my desk. I then checked my hair for damage in the same mirror she had used to fuss over her own hair. A tad frayed, but nothing a little L'Oréal and a trim couldn't mend. Perhaps a deep conditioning as well. I was definitely overdue for a salon appointment.

Call me vain if you must, but if a woman like Francesca can pride herself on her looks, surely a man like myself can do the same without judgment. Speaking of which, I can tell you one thing that my "wife" and my hairdresser have in common: they both know how to tease it until it stands up.

I returned to my desk, trying once again to lose myself between the pages of _Paradise Lost,_ but to no avail. That damnable hussy had me all wound up, only to leave me high and dry for some pretty boy. I glanced over at Gino, still sound asleep in the corner. My right hand strayed toward my lap, then recoiled in disgust.

_No, _I told myself firmly._ Not while you're babysitting. It wouldn't be right, even if the boy IS asleep._

I tried to picture the most disturbing, revolting image possible to stave off my lust: _Homer Simpson… Homer Simpson naked… Homer Simpson naked and in bed with his wife… his wife with the awe-inspiring hair and a figure that… that… that isn't exactly helping! _

I tried instead to imagine her sister, my ex-wife, Selma. Now there was an erection killer if ever there was one. Don't get me wrong; I am not so shallow as to be entirely turned off by a less-than-ideal female figure. Far from it. As a well-rounded man, I admire women of all shapes, sizes and colors. But until you get to know Selma Bouvier – I mean really KNOW her, in the biblical sense – well, you can't fully appreciate how the mere thought of her makes me shudder so.

But alas, not even a nude Selma parading across my frontal lobe could dampen my desires. Not when I knew full well that, had she been here at this very moment, she would not say no, and (I am loathe to admit) neither would I.

_..._

_Scene II_

One cold shower later, I was refreshed and relaxed and my damaged hair was on the mend after a thorough conditioning. I returned to my office, only to find Gino absent from his sleeping space in the corner. I glanced down the staircase to make sure he hadn't taken a tumble while I was in the shower. It was then that I heard a rustling sound coming from somewhere down the hallway. The door to Francesca's bedroom stood ajar. I groaned, knowing this could mean only one thing, and it was not a good thing.

I approached the door, mentally bracing myself for what lay behind it, and pushed it open. Gino was jumping on the bed, wearing only his underwear and one of his mother's see-through negligees. Her expensive makeup was smeared all over his face, giving him an appearance that could give any version of Batman's Joker a run for his money. In all honesty, it reminded me of the time Krusty had fired his makeup artist minutes before show time, and in an act of sheer desperation, allowed his chimp, Mr. Teeny, to do the job. Not a wise career move.

To make matters worse, there were bright red lipstick kisses and tiny, powdery handprints on the vanity mirror. Cosmetic products were strewn across the dresser, bras, knickers and lingerie all over the floor, and the overpowering reek of several combined fragrances told me that Gino had made good use of his mother's fifty-euro-per-ounce perfume collection.

"Ciao, papa Bob!" the boy greeted me cheerfully as he continued to bounce on the delicate satin bedspread.

I staggered backward in shock, steadying myself against the doorframe. "Your mother is going to kill me," I groaned. While it was by no means a prophetic statement, let us just say that after that incident, I began taking cold showers on a regular basis and leave it at that, shall we?


	16. Act XVI

_Being Bob_

_Act XVI, Scene I_

_"Therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, to entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain, and hate the idle pleasures of these days." ~ Richard the Third, Act I, Scene I_

I was contemplating the sunset beyond the verdant hills when I heard the door to my office open, followed by the sound of a vaguely familiar female voice –a voice that could only be described as honeyed gravel.*

"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor? They say you speak English."

"Indeed I do." I swiveled my chair around to face my visitors. No sooner had they caught sight of my face than they screamed my detestable former stage name in unified horror.

"SIDESHOW BOB!"

"The Simpsons!" I shouted back, equally horrified.

Bart – the bane of my existence – was the first to recover from our collective shock and step forward brazenly. "Sideshow Bob? Of all the_ regione_, in all the _villagi,_ in all of _Italia,"_ he cried out angrily, gripping the edge of my desk and pointing an accusing finger at me, "you had to be_ il mayore_ of this one!"

"I can assure you, I'm as sorry to see you as you are to see me," I replied with impeccable calm, although inwardly I was still reeling in disbelief.

"How'd you wind up here?" asked Lisa, the daughter. Her tone wasn't harsh or mocking, but rather genuinely curious.

"Yes, tell us your story," said Homer, "but it better have a beginning, a middle and an end. And you'd better make us root for the protagonist!" he added menacingly.

I decided to humor them. After all, it was I who had the upper hand now, I who had risen through the ranks to become the head and the heart of an entire community, while they remained the same stereotypical, corn-fed, blue-collar Americans that I could comfortably look down my nose at.

"My tale begins after I had once again attempted to murder Bart."

Homer nodded. "Okay, so far I'm rootin' for ya."

I told them the abridged version of how I had come to be mayor of Salsiccia, omitting, of course, certain details of a familial nature. My hopes that I could be rid of the Simpsons before Francesca returned from her latest date were dashed the moment my faux trophy wife walked in with Gino in her arms. Right when I was finishing my story, as if on cue. Damn that woman and her insufferable nosiness. Did I pester her about her about her various beaus and boy toys? Well… maybe a little.

"Roberto!" she called out, donning a smile I didn't trust. _"Amore!"_

Behind that cordial mask her dark eyes glittered inquisitively, suspiciously. In the brief time we'd been together, the Simpsons were my first and only out-of-town guests. Most everyone I knew lived far away, in either Britain or America, and Francesca was well aware of that. I don't fault her for her curiosity. It is human nature, after all.

The exact details of my criminal past I'd kept mum when we agreed to "marry," and although she made no direct inquiries, I found she had little respect for my privacy, as evidenced by her constant eavesdropping on private phone calls and meetings.

I resisted an unpleasant smirk at her arrival and instead curled my lips into a convincing smile, and without missing a beat, introduced the Simpsons to my "bride" and "son."

"Holy moly!" Homer exclaimed, "I always thought you were… you know… out loud and proud!"

I shrugged. "Well, I experimented in college, as one does." The exact details of said experimentation I prefer not to divulge, thank you very much.

"Yeah, I never went to college," Homer replied.

I gave him a deadpan look. "Stop the presses."

It was then that Marge stepped forward, introducing Francesca to her family. "Hello, I'm Marge. This is my husband Homer, my daughters, Lisa and Maggie, and my son, Bart Simpson."

"Bart Seempson?" Francesca repeated the dreaded name, and I felt the blood drain from my face. "The name Roberto cries when he has-a the bad dream!"

Although I knew that I sometimes talk in my sleep, I was unaware that Francesca had ever heard me, as we rarely shared a bed for non-carnal purposes. Indeed, we even had separate bedrooms on opposite sides of the house. She couldn't possibly have heard me all the way from her own room, could she?

"Bart Simpson! Bart Simpson! Bart Simpson! I make like my daddy!" shouted Gino while stabbing the air with an imaginary knife. "Ack! Ack! Ack!"

Apparently they could both hear me screaming in my sleep. Fantastic.

With an admittedly nervous chuckle, I lifted the boy from his mother's arms and set him on the floor. He was usually better behaved whenever I handled him.

"Yes, Bart and I used to go, er, fly-fishing together!"

Gino ran around in circles shouting "Die, Bart! Die, Bart!" until he stepped on his toy rake and was effectively silenced by the handle hitting him in the face. I never thought I could feel such satisfaction in seeing it happen to another person for once, although at the same time I deeply empathized with the boy. It was an odd combination of feelings, to say the least.

And then Francesca did the unthinkable.

"You shall all stay for dinner," she announced, "and tell me more about my wonderful Roberto." Here she turned to me, and brushed her fingers through my hair with a dreamy sigh. "He makes love like a man who just got out of jail."

I felt myself blushing, then, before I knew it, Francesca was kissing me on the lips. My surprise was so great that it took me a moment to return the gesture, although I suspect that I failed to do so convincingly. Of the various uses for her mouth, kissing was not one of them. No matter what lust-driven lengths we were taken to together, I was spared not a single kiss.

It was a different story when it came to Gino, of course. She gladly kissed his every bump and bruise, and at every bedtime gave him a kiss good night. The tenderness she showed her son was unlike anything else this woman had to offer. I sometimes believed that Gino was the only male she could ever truly love. Not that I minded at all. But sometimes…

With a little chuckle to ease the tension, I gently ushered Francesca toward the door.

"Haha, yes, you crave my skillful touch," I purred. "Now go, take the boy and shut the door. I'll rock your world anon."

That was a promise, for I decided right then and there that she owed me for taking it upon herself to invite my archenemies to dinner. I was by no means a forceful man (rape and domestic violence were among the few crimes I truly despised) but I'd be damned if I was going to let Francesca get away with this. She was clearly doing all of this out of spite, and I had no doubt that she would soon try to wheedle the Simpsons for information about me.

The instant my office door was closed, I turned to face my guests, dropping down on one knee with my hands clasped pleadingly.

"Simpsons! I beg of you! Please don't destroy the new life I've created here! Surely even the most heinous criminal deserves a seventh chance?"

"Bob! You haven't told your wife about all the terrible things you've done?" Marge asked incredulously.

"Yeah! I tell Marge everything," Homer added. "Not necessarily in words, but in body language. You know, sneaking around and such."

Bart crossed his arms and glared at me. "Bob, your family will find out the truth," he growled. "Sooner or later you'll try to kill me again. Watch, I'll prove it." He stepped forward and lifted the front of his shirt, exposing his abdomen in what was no doubt meant to be an enticing display. "Come on, Bob! Slice, dice and serve on rice!"

"You little scamp!" I chuckled, kneeling before him to pull his shirt back down, while a darker part of me wanted nothing more than to plunge a knife into that belly and rip out his entrails. "You know, you'll make some murderer very happy one day. But it shan't be me!" I ruffled his hair and stood up.

"Bart, Bob is a family man now," Marge said. "You can't be a bad person if you have a family!"

The older girl – Lisa – spoke up. "And literature is filled with tales of redemption, from Jean Valjean to the voice of Buzz Lightyear, Tim Allen."

Then Homer stepped forward, addressing me directly. "Alright Bob, we won't tell your beautiful new family that you're a homicidal psychopath IF you fix up our car."

I breathed a sigh of relief and gave a grateful bow. "Grazie! Now I can't undo the past, but I can try to make it up to you. My humble little town is at your service!"

Little did I know that that fateful decree would mark the beginning of the end of my decadent new life.

* * *

><p>*"Honeyed gravel" is how Marge's voice actress, Julie Kavner, describes her voice.<p> 


	17. Act XVII

_Being Bob_

_Act XVII, Scene I_

_"Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,_  
><em>for thee, and for myself, no quiet find." ~ Sonnet XXVII<em>

"West Leicester Medical Center, how may I help you?"

"Um, yes," Lisa said nervously, gripping the receiver. "Could I speak to Doctor Terwilliger, please?"

"I'm sorry, but the doctor is rather busy right now," the receptionist replied in a sugary sweet voice that lacked the sincerity to match. "He has a lot of patients to see today. Would you like to make an appointment?"

"No, thanks. I'm calling about his son, Robert Junior. You see, he's –"

"Doctor Terwilliger receives many phone calls regarding that particular son, nearly all of them complaints or crank calls," the woman said in an accusing tone, giving Lisa the impression that she must have answered several such phone calls personally.

"I promise you, this is not a crank call. In fact, it's very urgent!"

"If you need to speak to the doctor for personal reasons, you can do so by phoning him at his home. This line is for medical purposes only."

"But his home phone number is unlisted!" Lisa exclaimed. "How else am I supposed to contact him?"

"I'm sorry," the receptionist replied, "but unless you have concerns of a medical nature, you cannot be calling this number. Our physicians need to maintain a professional atmosphere. That includes the phone line. Now, if you'd like to schedule an appointment, we have some empty timeslots available next Tuesday –"

"I'm in the United States," Lisa said flatly.

There was a short pause before the receptionist spoke again. "Why are you calling then?"

"I already told you: I need to talk to Doctor Terwilliger about his son!"

"And I already told YOU that this clinic receives dozens of phone calls per week regarding Sideshow Bob!" The woman sounded clearly exasperated by this point. "If it isn't some hothead berating the doctor over the criminal he raised and demanding compensation, it's some dumb kid asking where to send fan mail! Doctor Terwilliger is already on thin ice because of all the negative publicity. Frankly, I doubt he would want to speak to his son even if he were right there on the other end of the line with you at this very moment!"

Lisa smirked, glancing back over her shoulder to where Bob himself was watching T.V. in the next room. "Why don't you let the doctor decide that for himself?" she answered smugly.

"Oh no, if I connect you to his office and this turns out to be another crank call, I could get fired! Now, unless there is something of a medical nature I can assist you with, I will bid you good day –"

"WAIT!" Lisa shouted into the phone. "Sideshow Bob has a – a medical condition – and only his dad can help him with it. THAT'S why I'm calling! You have to put me through to him! Please!"

There was a long pause, making Lisa wonder if the line had gone dead. Then she heard a sigh.

"I hope you're telling the truth," the receptionist muttered before transferring the call.

Lisa waited for several minutes, during which she was transferred from one line to the next. Marge, who was making breakfast, kept glancing over at her, grunting worriedly as she tried to calculate how much this long-distance call to England would ultimately cost.

The faint lull of hold music was finally interrupted by a man's voice. "Hello?"

"Hello?" Lisa said timidly. "Robert Terwilliger?"

"Speaking. And that's DOCTOR Terwilliger, while I am still in my office," the man said in a tone that was firm yet amiable. "Now, who is this and how may I be of service?"

"Sorry. _Doctor_ Terwilliger. My name is Lisa Sssss – sir," she caught herself before she ended up revealing her last name. "I'm calling from the United States regarding your son Bob."

"Bob? Why, I haven't heard from him in – what is it now? – three years, at least." The man suddenly sounded much older and less confident than when he'd first answered the phone. As if somehow the mere thought of his prodigal son caused him to wither like a frostbitten blossom. "I suppose you're calling to inform me that he's in prison again."

"Um, no, actually." Lisa cleared her throat. "See, there was this accident, and he –"

"He's dead. Or he's killed someone," Dr. Terwilliger guessed in an odd, distant tone that suggested he'd been expecting such news.

"No, no, he's very much alive!" Lisa assured him, "and actually NOT guilty of killing anyone. He has amnesia."

"Amnesia?" the man repeated. "Retrograde or anterograde?"

"Retrograde," Lisa answered immediately, sensing that the doctor was testing her knowledge of the condition. "He doesn't remember anything from his life before the accident that caused it. Not even his own name. I thought putting him in touch with his family would help jog his memory."

There was a rather impatient-sounding sigh on the other end of the line. "The prevalence of amnesia is, in itself, quite low in the medical community, with documented cases of properly diagnosed retrograde amnesia being exceptionally low. The most common cause, injury to the head, is far more likely to yield motor trauma than psychological trauma. On the other hand, atrophy of the hippocampus would invariably cause…"

Lisa rolled her eyes and waited patiently as the doctor prattled on like a dry medical text for the next minute or so, until her mother's increasingly anxious grunts goaded her to try to get a word in edgewise.

"I know it's hard to believe, Doctor Terwilliger, but I assure you, your son _does_ have amnesia. Yes. Ye – no, I'm not a doctor, but… well, if you would just talk to him for _one_ minute, maybe _you_ can diagnose him over the phone and tell me if I'm wrong! Fine. BOB!" Lisa called out toward the living room.

A moment later, Bob poked his head into the kitchen, his wild hair framing his face like a vermilion lion's mane. Neither he nor Marge had quite gotten the hang of brushing it out properly yet.

"Yes?" he said, wide-eyed and timid and completely out of character. The absence of a blood-curdling growl or a death threat was something Lisa was still getting used to.

"I've got your father on the phone," she said with a smile. "He wants to speak to you."

Bob's face lit up. "Really?" Then came a worried look. "He's not going to holler at me like your father does to your brother every day, is he?"

Lisa smirked. "He's _your_ dad, not Bart's." She held the phone out to him. "I think you'll be safe." In truth, she had no idea what Bob's relationship with his father was like.

Bob stared at the receiver for a long moment, as if expecting two massive arms to reach out of it and start strangling him right then and there.

"It's long-distance from England," Marge told him, sensing another digit being added to the phone bill.

Bob took the receiver. "Hello?"

"Bob? Is that you?"

"I'm… not sure. I've been taking a lot on hearsay lately. Are you my father?"

"Yes. I am," the doctor replied, relief flooding his voice. "My name is Robert Terwilliger."

"But these nice people here told me MY name is Robert Terwilliger," Bob replied. "Am I you, or are you me? We can't both be Robert Terwilliger."

"I'm Robert Terwilliger Senior, and you're my son, Robert Terwilliger Junior. You're named after me."

Bob glanced at Marge and Lisa, who were watching him intensely. "Okayyyyy, so… I'm a second you?"

"In name only. You may have my aquiline nose and sciapodous feet, but you've got your mother's curly hair and fiery temperament. Not to mention her flair for the dramatic."

Bob blinked, confused. "I've… got hair, yes." He lifted a hand up to pat a frizzy lock. "I guess it is rather curly. And I've got feet also. Two of them." He glanced down at them as if to confirm their existence. "I wouldn't call them sciapodous, though. They're actually pretty big. Didn't know they were someone else's. And my name… which is also yours…" he trailed off, looking dazed.

"This is worse than I thought," Robert muttered, but Bob didn't seem to have heard him.

After a moment's hesitation, he turned to face Lisa, who had taken a seat across the table from him, while Marge set down plates heaped with pancakes on the table.

"If nothing of mine is truly mine, then who am I really?" he asked, addressing the young Simpson girl as well as the man on the other end of the phone. "How will I ever rediscover myself when myself isn't who I am?"

"How will you – Bob, don't be ridiculous," Robert said. "You're still uniquely you. You'll figure that out when you regain your memory. Listen, I could tell you everything there is to know about you, from your first words to the theme of your Yale dissertation, but it would only be from MY perspective. _Your_ memories, from the life _you've_ lived, are yours and yours alone. I can't tell you how to be the you that only you know how to be.

"All I can tell you is to simply forget about the man everyone else insists you are and work on being Bob. There, you see? You're not just another Robert Terwilliger, son. You're _Bob_ Terwilliger. Your mother and I called you Bob so that there would be no confusion, no doubt in anybody's mind that you're your own man, no matter who you take after or whose name you have. _You_ are _you. _You can be nobody else, and nobody else can be you."

Something, somewhere, deep inside Bob, was screaming for attention; a tiny voice so faint and far away that it was more like an echo of another voice, one that had been silenced, perhaps forever.

Bob cleared his throat. "I am –"

"I'm very sorry, but there is nothing more I can do for you." His father's voice was tired, resigned. Breaking. "Things are hard enough here at home these days that I can't… I..." Bob wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a sob, followed by the sound of his father clearing his throat. "Er, take care of yourself. Alright, son? And let me speak to your friend again. Please."

Bob held the phone out to Lisa, but Marge took it from his hand and spoke into it, masking her impatience with concern.

"Hello? No, this is her mother, Marge. Yes. Yes, he's staying with us right now. Well, it _was_ sort of my husband's fault, so we figured it was the least we could do. Oh, no problem at all, really, just – uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Are you sure there's nothing you can do? But – I think – he really needs his family right now, and that's – uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh my! (sigh) Alright. Yeah. Thanks. Bye."

It wasn't until after Marge had hung up the phone that she noticed that Bob, Lisa, and now Homer and Bart (both of whom had slept in) were all staring at her questioningly.

"That was Bob's father," she explained to the latecomers. "He said it wouldn't be a good idea for Bob to come home at this time because his brother is living there now and, well, apparently they're still feuding. He also said that their mother's got gout and that she doesn't need another pair of, quote, 'big, clumsy clown feet' stepping on hers while she's convalescing. Oh, and they're currently having their guest bathroom regrouted, so…" she shrugged, "not a good time."

Marge thought about how utterly absurd it all sounded, and wondered if she'd been duped by the doctor. She looked at Bob. "He also said to remember that if it's freezing outside, not to go outdoors within twenty-four hours of washing your hair, or you'll get hair-cicles, and then you'll get pneumonia. Apparently that's happened to you before. Numerous times." The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that she had indeed been duped.

The family exchanged puzzled looks but said nothing as they sat down to breakfast. The atmosphere in the kitchen was uncharacteristically quiet. Even the sound of Homer scarfing down his pancakes was oddly subdued.

Bob barely touched his food as he mulled over his father's words. It was too much. Or perhaps not nearly enough. Why did thinking have to hurt so badly? After a minute or two, he set his fork down and clasped his face in his hands, his head hung low.

"Hey, watch it!" snapped Bart, who sat next to him. "You're getting your hair in my maple syrup!"

"And you're getting maple syrup in your hair!" Marge added in alarm, foreseeing yet another industrial-sized bottle of shampoo being wrung empty just to wash it out. She moved to brush the offending lock away from Bart's plate and paused, staring at their guest in shock.

"Bob, are you… you're crying! What's wrong? What hurts?"

It was tempting to shout "EVERYTHING!" since his tears were borne out of sheer frustration rather than any physical pain. After all, he wasn't sad, he wasn't scared, he wasn't distressed. He _was _upset, though, that he wasn't making any progress, and he felt alone and helpless because nobody seemed to knew the Bob he was trying to find. They were all as clueless as he was. Even his own father (if that really _was_ his father) had been no help to him at all.

All he knew of himself was what he had been told by total strangers. All of his knowledge had to be taken on hearsay and good faith. And yet he alone was expected to piece it all together and make sense of it, to rediscover himself, to live again. It was simply too much to ask of a man so utterly alone in the world.

When Marge started rubbing his back, he took a deep breath to calm himself. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he assured her. "Just another headache. I think I'll go lie down for a while."

Marge nodded. "Of course, Bob. I'll bring you some Tylenol and an icepack. Go ahead. I'll clear the table."

Bob muttered a thank you before slipping away upstairs. In the guest room, he closed the curtains and laid down on the bed, above the covers. It had been just over a week since his accident, and while his physical injuries had all healed (with the exception of an occasional splitting headache) his memory had yet to show even a modicum of improvement.

As he lay resting, he struggled, once again, to remember. Tiny flickers of almost-memories darted behind his closed eyelids, like fireflies too quick to catch. His father's words echoed in the black void they once inhabited. _"Forget about the man everyone else insists you are and work on being Bob."_

"How?" he asked out loud, opening his eyes to the celestial expanse of dusty pink ceiling above. In his headache-induced haze, it looked to him like heaven… as viewed from hell. "How can I be Bob when I don't even know who he is?"


End file.
